I HIT HIM
Right in the chest.
Not hard.
Then again.
“You idiot.”
He didn’t move.
“You absolute idiot.”
“I know.”
“You couldn’t call?”
“You weren’t answering.”
“You could have tried harder.”
“I did.”
“You went fourteen months.”
“You told me to leave you alone.”
“That doesn’t mean leave me alone!”
There it was.
The most irrational sentence I had ever spoken.
Noah’s eyes filled.
He nodded.
“I know that now.”
I hit his chest again.
Then I grabbed his shirt and started crying.
Not graceful tears.
Everything.
Mom.
Dad.
The funeral.
Grandma.
Christmas.
Graduation.
Every unanswered message.
Noah wrapped both arms around me.
And suddenly I was ten again.
My big brother holding me after I fell off my bicycle.
I sobbed into his shirt.
“You left.”
His voice broke.
“I know.”
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
“I missed you.”
That did it.
Noah started crying too.
“I missed you too.”
WHEN I FINALLY LET GO, I SAW WHAT HE WAS HOLDING
A small bouquet.
Not roses.
Sunflowers.
Mom’s favorite.
My throat tightened.
“Where did you get those?”
“Grandma told me.”
I stared.
“Grandma?”
Noah immediately realized his mistake.
“Oh.”
“What did Grandma tell you?”
“Nothing.”
“Noah.”
He looked toward the school.
“Beautiful campus.”
“NOAH.”
He laughed through tears.
Then reached into his jacket.
A folded letter.
Grandma’s handwriting.
I read it.
Every line.
By the end, I was crying again.
“She did this?”
“She mailed it three weeks ago.”
“She told me she wasn’t doing anything.”
“She lied.”
“She never lies.”
Noah smiled.
“Apparently she makes exceptions for dramatic reunions.”
Then he took something else from his pocket.
The photograph of him outside the airport.
On the back:
Tell her nothing. I’ll be there.
I laughed.
“She planned this.”
“She threatened me.”
“What?”
“Not directly.”
“That sounds like Grandma.”
Noah nodded.
“Very much.”
