I don’t want him to look at me at all in this moment. There are so many things I’m afraid he’ll see in me if he stares too closely or for too long. It’s only a matter of time before he realizes just how broken I am.

Now there is the question of where to begin. Perhaps the night Finn and I performed the resurrection spell that allowed me to speak to my brother from beyond the grave.

Perhaps I begin with explaining that I’ve tracked down my father.

Or perhaps I begin the story the night my brother went missing and something inside of me was permanently ruined, making me a person who does selfish, awful things.

Here’s another secret. I never told Lena, Maxine, or Oliver that the resurrection spell, the spell I nearly ruined my own life over to gain the ability to speak to my brother once more, actually worked. They know Finn and I attempted the spell, they know Finn used my desperation to bind my magic to him, effectively robbing me of it. But when I told the story, they assumed Finn’s theft meant the spell never worked, that it was all a ruse. I didn’t know how to correct them, so I simply didn’t. It seemed too awful and strange to speak about. How do I tell them I spoke to a ghost? How do I tell them it still didn’t change anything?

Next to me, Oliver is silent, still looking straight through me. It’s hard to tell if he’s breathing or not.

God, I want nothing more than to reach out for him. The anchor of his hand might stop me from spiraling. But his hands are folded neatly in his lap, so untouchable, he might as well be across the ocean from me again.

So I lean my head on the back of the bench in our private train car and stare up at the red fabric ceiling. There’s relief in truth telling. I should know that well enough by now, but it surprises me every time. I’d do anything to make the slippery, rotten feelings inside me go away, so I’ll do the one thing I haven’t done yet. I’ll try being honest.

I thought if I could protect them from the mess of my life, from the ugliness of my guilt, I’d be being a good friend. But the truth has come knocking and I can’t pretend anymore. I don’t have the energy.

If a secret is an act of love, truth telling is an act of trust. Of handing the very worst parts of yourself to someone and asking if they’ll hold them too.

“I found my dad,” I say simply.