I want to reach out to touch that hair. Slide my fingers through it. It's unkempt, but looks so soft. I want to curl up against him, around him, and tell him I understand. I don't have a family, and he's invisible to his. I want to tell him that I notice him, even if no one else does.

His shoulders hunch up, fingers lacing behind his neck. I know what he would say to that. I'm not worth noticing. And I'm not sure I can stomach him taking something so heartfelt and sincere and tossing it aside, so I say nothing. We sit on the balcony, hip to hip, being sad together.

CHAPTER 13

Harold calls four days later and asks if I want to have lunch. I pull back and stare at the phone like he's lost his mind, which I think he must have. Inwardly, a small part of me panics. Did something happen? Was I not really supposed to get that money?

"Relax, kiddo. I just wanted to see how you were doing."

I don't relax, but I agree to meet him at a diner in town tomorrow for lunch, not far from his office.

Harold looks as put-together as he always does in his suit and tie, with his graying hair slicked back. He's out of place in a diner like this, but I fit right in with my messy hair and a hole in the knee of my jeans. If he notices he doesn't belong here, he doesn't show it. He smiles while sliding into the other side of the booth.

"How's it going, Vince?"

I had already ordered my drink before he showed up, so I toy with the wrapper from the straw, glancing up only briefly. He makes me nervous. Why does he make me nervous? Maybe because he's been the bearer of bad news before, and I worry he'll do it again. "Fine, I guess." I can't think of a nice way to say what do you want?

"That's good." He folds his hands on the table. Didn't he used to wear a wedding ring? "I know this probably seemed out of left field, me asking you here. I just wanted to check up on you. See for myself you were doing all right."

I nod. Probably a little too fast and purposefully to be believable. "Yeah. No. That's cool. I'm fine, obviously, as you can see. I'm not dead or anything." Yet.

"What have you been up to?"

Oh. Joining pro-suicide forums, meeting strangers online, contemplating the meaning of life.

For one brief second, I'm terrified Harold knows precisely what I've been up to. He has a briefcase of notes on me; my internet search history, my comings and goings, the number of times in a week I jog out to the bridge and consider throwing myself off.

God, please tell me I don't look as panicked as I feel. "Sorry?"

"Well," Harold gestures at nothing in particular. A waitress comes over long enough to ask coffee? to which Harold gives her a smile and a nod before looking at me again. "Are you working? Thinking about going to college? Maggie talked about that. About college."