“Achievement unlocked.” I smile, and then a little wave of sadness follows. I may have talked him into being brave, but it brings my own shortcomings into sharp relief. After more than three years at the same school, I haven’t managed to be absorbed into Will’s wider circle of friends. I can’t even come up with something to text to Zoe, in spite of the fact that “Sure, you can use my stupid painting” is all she needs to hear. How am I going to survive college when I can barely function in the place I’ve spent my whole life?

Will pulls me off the beanbag, and we head back out to his car. On the way home, he rehashes his interaction with Kitty no fewer than three times. I make vague noises of interest while composing and deleting messages to Zoe until I give up in frustration and check my email.

There I find something I would never have expected: a message from my dad.

He doesn’t write very often outside of birthday and holiday cards, probably because I was so upset when he moved to London five years ago that my response rate to his emails has remained close to zero. A familiar surge of anger briefly consumes me, and then I shove it in the black hole where I put all my feelings.

It never occurred to me that I’d be left alone with my mother. Even though my parents divorced when I was six, my dad stayed nearby until he took a job in England. Before he left, his Lake Oswego townhome was one of my favorite places to be. We spent weekend afternoons exploring the tangled woods behind it, and that forest remained an endless source of discovery and magic.

When I was a kid, Dad and I had family traditions for every holiday. Ice cream at Cannon Beach on New Year’s no matter how absurdly cold it was outside. Going up to Mount Hood to build a snowman on Presidents’ Day. Finding a restaurant where we could eat rabbit on Easter. Alpine slides for the Fourth of July. Labor Day camping. Early dinner at an absurdly fancy restaurant before trick-or-treating on Halloween. Now, any missive from him is a crushing reminder of his absence, what I lost, and what he left me with.

My stomach lurches, and I’m not sure if it’s Will’s driving or my dad’s email. I read the message, hearing every word in his lilting British accent.

Sammy,