Chapters (81)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- — Part One —
- — Chapter 1 —
- — Chapter 2 —
- — Chapter 3 —
- — Chapter 4 —
- — Chapter 5 —
- — Chapter 6 —
- — Chapter 7 —
- — Chapter 8 —
- — Chapter 9 —
- — Chapter 10 —
- — Chapter 11 —
- — Chapter 12 —
- — Chapter 13 —
- — Chapter 14 —
- — Chapter 15 —
- — Chapter 16 —
- — Chapter 17 —
- — Chapter 18 —
- — Chapter 19 —
- — Chapter 20 —
- — Chapter 21 —
- — Chapter 22 —
- — Chapter 23 —
- — Chapter 24 —
- — Chapter 25 —
- — Chapter 26 —
- — Chapter 27 —
- — Chapter 28 —
- — Chapter 29 —
- — Chapter 30 —
- — Chapter 31 —
- — Part Two —
- — Chapter 32 —
- — Chapter 33 —
- — Chapter 34 —
- — Chapter 35 —
- — Chapter 36 —
- — Chapter 37 —
- — Chapter 38 —
- — Chapter 39 —
- — Chapter 40 —
- — Chapter 41 —
- — Chapter 42 —
- — Chapter 43 —
- — Chapter 44 —
- — Chapter 45 —
- — Chapter 46 —
- — Chapter 47 —
- — Chapter 48 —
- — Chapter 49 —
- — Chapter 50 —
- — Chapter 51 —
- — Chapter 52 —
- — Chapter 53 —
- — Chapter 54 —
- — Chapter 55 —
- — Chapter 56 —
- — Chapter 57 —
- — Chapter 58 —
- — Chapter 59 —
- — Part Three —
- — Chapter 60 —
- — Chapter 61 —
- — Chapter 62 —
- — Chapter 63 —
- — Chapter 64 —
- — Chapter 65 —
- — Chapter 66 —
- — Chapter 67 —
- — Chapter 68 —
- — Chapter 69 —
- — Chapter 70 —
- — Chapter 71 —
- — Chapter 72 —
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
I get myself a Coke from the fridge and stand on the couch in my socks to look at Adam’s books. But instead of choosing one, I stare at the picture of Adam from college, really look at the other guys this time. I wonder where they ended up, because since I’ve been here, none of them have called. Adam hasn’t done more than go to euchre with a few other townies. And even though he smiles at me all the time, it’s a few degrees faded from his smile in the picture, and you can tell he wasn’t quite happy then. I wonder if maybe all you do is meet people and lose them and your smile fades the further you go because you have to carry the space they leave. Maybe it all just turns into old pictures on a bookshelf, engraved rings, memories of sticking stars to a ceiling, and maybe the space gets bigger and heavier every year.
I use the phone number Adam left on the fridge and call him at his office.
“Yo,” he says when he picks up.
“Um, it’s me,” I say. “April.”
“I know,” he says. “Caller ID. I don’t usually say ‘yo’ when I pick up my phone.”
“I’m home early,” I tell him. “Just thought I’d let you know.” It reminds me of when I lived over the Wash ’n Fold and I had to call my dad after I got home and locked the door behind me. That was when he worked at the electric company, before he got fired. When he had a work number I could call.
“Hey, I’m just grading papers,” Adam says. “I can work on them later. Want me to come home? We can go do something. See the falls, maybe.”
I say, “Yes, I’d like you to come home,” and the words don’t feel as strange to me as I’d expect.
Adam picks me up and says we’re going to Tackonick Falls, but when we get there somehow Tackonick is actually the way Taughannock is pronounced.
I like the way Adam looks when he’s driving—his hat pulled back further than usual, a few curls peeking out around his forehead, the scratched wire-rimmed glasses he only wears in the car sit slightly crooked on his nose. I like the way he focuses on the road completely, as if I’m precious cargo and he’s being very, very careful.