He’s in the Orman room, and there’s no sign of Alex or Wally. And even though we don’t fall asleep on the floor this time, we take turns reading from The Forest Between the Sea and the Sky until our voices slur with fatigue and all the stars—old and new—have winked out from the early morning sky.

chapter thirteen

When I come down to the store early Friday morning, Nolan is waiting for me. There is a newfound freedom between us, a kind of wild abandonment that can only be found on the other side of sharing dark truths and painful stories. And saliva.

It almost makes me forget that I leave in two days.

Almost.

“Let’s buy a bunch of books and go read them at the beach,” he says, by way of greeting.

Self-portrait: an hourglass, but instead of sand, it is filled with tiny books, and trick photography is used to make it appear like the subject—me—is trapped inside.

I am both repulsed by and drawn to the rows of books, my flesh recoiling as my soul lurches forward in a desperate attempt to fling itself from my body and wrap around a story. I’ve been avoiding stories and all their complications, but now that I’m ready to return to them, I’m worried it won’t be the same, even after Nolan read to me two nights in a row.

I’m a mess.

I say as much to Nolan, who has selected the history room as our first destination. A headless mannequin dressed in Regency garb greets us, and there are replicas of major historical documents on the wall.

“We’re all messes,” he says. “Isn’t that the point?”

“Sucky point,” I say.

“Sucky world,” he answers.

The sentiment seems too harsh and I say so.

“Tell me something that doesn’t suck,” he says, head hunched over a book he holds open in one palm, with the last bite of an apple in the other.

“Sunsets,” I say.

“Heightened by the pollution that is slowly killing our planet,” he says.

“Puppies,” I say.

“Which part? The one where they are used as meat in some countries or the one where there are more than the world wants so we destroy them?”

It’s a stupid game, depressing, and I love it.

“The ocean,” I say.

“It’s too sandy.” He snaps the book closed, puts it back on the shelf, before floating with purpose to the next. “People die in the ocean.”

“People die everywhere,” I retort, ignoring the slight jab at my heart.

“Exactly,” Nolan says. He turns to face me. “Because everything sucks.”

We stare at each other. Nolan—unbelievably, blessedly—cracks first. His mouth tilts upward and his eyes finally catch the mirth.

I laugh. “I guess everything has the potential to suck. It just has to be in context.”