My head shoots up. Tate is typing into a device similar to mine. He smiles into the screen, and more words appear on mine. Your hair smells like apples and your skin is smooth and soft and is that same shade of peach that glows. You are more beautiful now than ever. That’s what Tate thinks.

My heart rate slows. Tate used to run his hands up and down my arms, leaving a trail of goose bumps across my flesh. He said he loved the feel of my skin. I pick up the device. “What is this?”

His chest broadens. “I’d like t . . . t-o help you remember, also, if that’s okay, Claire.”

A coldness pierces my skin, steals the warmth from before, but Tate’s eyes meet mine squarely, and instead of pity I sense respect—admiration, even—in his stare.

“I do that already.”

“Yes, and you’re amazing at it, but it seems like you might be missing out . . . sometimes.”

I cross my arms, made vulnerable by his words. “How?”

“On experiencing the moment more instead of trying to write it all down.” He holds up his device. “But w . . . w . . . all of us can help.” He types again, and I look at the screen.

This is a shared document. So I can add to your online notebook, giving you a different perspective from the pieces of your day that include me.

There is a bubble by the entry with his name. Another bubble pops up.

I can too. This one has Ruth’s name, and when I look up, I see that she’s left the table and is sitting over by her desk, in front of a desktop, peering down through reading glasses perched at the end of her nose.

Tate touches my hand. “I can g . . . g-ive access to whoever you trust.” He shrugs, seems to wait for me to speak, but I’m frozen, unsure of how to respond to a gesture at once grand and sweet but also invasive and exposing.

When I don’t speak, Tate seems to shrink. “I’m s . . . s . . . I apologize. Is it t . . . t-oo much?”

Maybe it’s the stutter, a reminder of the boy inside the man, or maybe it’s the overload of information that threatens to wash me out or the idea that anyone would go to such lengths for me, but I feel myself shaking my head no, then standing and moving toward him, mouth clamped shut, and tears brimming. When he stands I hug him, and it must surprise him because at first he doesn’t move. Then his arms wrap around me and he holds me tight, and I breathe out and lean into the feeling of him, the heat of his body against mine, muscular and strong, and I relish the sensation that swaddles me.

I feel normal.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Friday, February 8