“It’s okay! It’s okay, Meg. I’m here. I know I’m … gone … in your world. But I’m here. And I’m not going to spend even a second taking that for granted again. Here, I have my k-kids, and…” A wave of heavy tears flows through her and she covers her face. “I … I love them so much. I’m so in love with my life. There’s no life for me but the one I have now. I belong here. No other world would be right for me.”

I breathe deeply and I swear, it may be the first real, satisfying breath I’ve taken in eleven years.

Since arriving in Avalon, I’ve remembered more and more about Aimee. But I’ve also remembered more about myself. Like how I used to be loud and obnoxious and annoying, like I was in that cringey video of me bothering Aimee at school, and how I’m glad I’m not anymore, but how maybe it’s a shame—and perhaps even more annoying—to tiptoe all the time. I remember now that I really loved the crap junk food my mom let me have every once in a while. I remember lying on the tile floor of my house in the thick of summer, unconcerned with the fact that it may be dirty, Aimee and me both with our tanned legs in the air, matching anklets on our matching bug-bitten ankles and chipping pink nail polish on our toes, a Fruit by the Foot in each of our mouths, turning our teeth purple. I remember borrowing her T-shirts for sleepovers and asking her mom if she had anything for a stomachache. I remember flumping down in the recliner in the living room at my house and begging my parents to let me invite Aimee over.

We used to ask our parents for the privilege of washing the cars so we could play in soap and hose water on a sweltering afternoon. We would hop from foot to foot on the hot blacktop as we waited in line for Good Humor bars from the ice cream man. I would lie down on school nights on top of my sheets with my blue plastic fan blowing on me until I fell into a humid sleep.

I used to do my homework in the backyard. I used to spray I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter! on already-buttered microwave popcorn. I constantly begged for gum at the checkout line at Publix. I used to read time-travel romances in the hammock in the backyard. I used to watch General Hospital with my mom. I used to write down the lyrics to my favorite songs and slide them into the plastic cover of my binder for school.