I waited for the devastation to come—the tears, the feeling that things were falling apart. But it didn’t.

I looked around through the rain, at the place where our house had been, and realized that it was just a piece of land. That was all it had ever been. It was the fact that the three of us had lived there together that had made it special. But now when I thought about home . . .

A series of images flashed through my mind. It was my dad in the kitchen, heating me up a slice of pizza, along with one for himself. It was walking back and forth with Palmer between our two houses. It was running up and down the stairs like crazy people as we gathered scavenger-hunt supplies. It was sharing a piece of cheesecake with my father. It wasn’t the farmhouse, not anymore.

“Hi.” I turned to see Clark standing next to me, raising his voice to be heard over the rain. He looked at the empty lot, then at me, his brow furrowed, and I could see just how much he was regretting this. “Andie, I—”

“Car,” I said, taking his hand and walking back across the street toward it, feeling like there wasn’t any need for us to get even more soaked. I climbed into the passenger seat, and Clark got behind the wheel a few seconds later. When he shut the door, it was like someone had turned off the volume—with the rain gone, it was suddenly very quiet, and much warmer.

“I’m so sorry,” Clark said immediately. “I didn’t realize—”

“It’s okay,” I said. I gave him a half smile. “Really.”

“Really?”

I nodded. “Yeah.” There was just the sound of the rain, then I said, “I always thought I didn’t want to come back here. I’ve been avoiding this place for five years. And in the end . . .” I looked back at where the house had been once more. “It would have been better to do this years ago. I was making it so much harder for myself when it didn’t have to be.” What Bri had said to Toby about Wyatt flashed into my head. “I think it’s better to face it,” I said.

Something passed over Clark’s face, and he looked down at the steering wheel.

“I do wish I could have gone back inside before it got knocked down, though.” Clark nodded, and I knew he probably assumed it was for sentimental reasons. I paused for only a second, listening to the rain hitting the window, before telling him what I’d never told anyone. “I always thought maybe my mom left something for me in there.”

“Like what?”

I shrugged and turned my back to the empty space where the farmhouse had been. “I don’t even know,” I said, realizing as I did that it was the truth. I’d never gotten further in my head than “something left for me in the house.” I’d just wanted some proof—beyond my mother buying out the feminine-care aisle of CVS—that she’d left something for me, something so that I could pretend, at least for a moment or two, that she was still with me. “Just . . . something.” I gave it one last look, then turned to Clark. “We can go now,” I said, giving him a smile. “I’m good.”

Clark squeezed my hand, then started the engine, and headed back toward the center of town. I kicked off my wet flip-flops and propped my feet on the dashboard, settling in for what I knew would be at least a half hour’s journey. I looked over and saw that he was gripping the steering wheel hard, his hands flexing against it and a muscle working in his jaw, like he was struggling with something. I started to say something, then realized that maybe I should wait for him to speak, just like he’d waited for me. I pressed my lips together and made myself sit in silence, and when I was almost sure I couldn’t take it any longer, Clark cleared his throat.

“I was just thinking . . . what you said? About how it’s better to face it?”

“Yes,” I said slowly. You can almost feel it coming, when someone needs to say something to you and you don’t want to spook them. It was the same way I felt whenever I picked up Fenway, the most jittery dog I walked. Any sudden movements and he’d go skittering under the bed, seeming to forget every day that it was nothing to be scared of, nothing but a walk, and that he was always happy once I got him out the door.

Clark let out a long breath, like he was steeling himself for something. And I somehow knew that there was a reason he was telling me now, when we were driving, when he didn’t have to look directly at me, when there were other things to focus on. “My dad,” he said, and I watched as his hands gripped and flexed against the wheel again before coming to rest at ten and two. I just nodded, even as I felt my breath catch in my throat. Since the first night we’d talked, I’d known there was a story there, but Clark hadn’t offered up any more details and I hadn’t known how to ask about it.

“What about him?” I asked, when Clark’s silence stretched on, and I started to worry that maybe he was waiting for me to say something. Clark paused at a red light and gave me a ghost of a smile before looking back at the road.

“He’s never read any of my books,” Clark said, his voice quiet. I blinked, just trying to understand this for a second. How was that even possible? “He always wanted to write,” Clark went on, before I could ask. And I knew, right away, that this wasn’t a story he’d told a lot—or ever. There was no easy cadence here, or practiced gloss. It felt like Clark was finding each word for the very first time. “He was doing the accountant thing to have some stability, but it was always supposed to be temporary. Until his real job could begin.” I nodded, the light changed, and Clark drove on. “But he never sold anything. Never even got an agent to take him on. But since I could remember, he was working on what he considered his masterpiece—this sci-fi epic.”