I like to believe we’d all find our way to each other no matter what. Don’t you think? Promise me that’s true. That we’ll all stay together. People trust you like they trust therapists. If you were the type to gossip, I’d never write this stuff down. Of course, if you were the talking type, you wouldn’t know what you know in the first place. What a weird catch. You have to stay bottled up to keep the trust. But I need you to use that trust to make sure we don’t lose each other. We can’t lose each other.

Anyway, know that I love you.

You are a part of me forever.

Love always,

Marley

July 11

Five Years Prior

“Can you believe my mom didn’t want to feed everyone?” Marley said as she rummaged through her kitchen cabinets in pursuit of something breakfast-like for the three of us. “That’s so rude.”

“There are a lot of us. My parents always get mad about it too,” I told her.

“That’s the thing. All of our families do it. It’s only fair. And it was our turn.” She found a box of strawberry Pop-Tarts hidden behind bags of rice in her pantry closet. “Aha! I knew my dad had these in here.” She tossed a packet to Nick and me.

Nick had been quieter than usual, ever since the day before. He and I had stuffed ourselves inside the Campbells’ towel closet during a game of hide-and-seek. To fit, he’d scooted his back against the wall. I came in face-first, my back to the door. Our heads were ducked low to keep from hitting the shelf above us, and we ended up cheek to cheek. He barely breathed. I tried to laugh, but I couldn’t.

It wasn’t funny.

“Here,” Nick said, pointing the opened Pop-Tart pouch toward me. He wrapped the foil back to better show the contents. “Pick which one looks better.”

“They look the same.”

“I want you to have the one you like more,” he said.

“What if you hate the other one?”

“Didn’t you just say they’re the same?”

“Yeah, but what if you can taste the fact that I didn’t choose that one?”

He smiled. His grin was toothier than he wanted it to be. He fought it often, covering his mouth with his hand or turning his cheek. But not then. He shone his joy on me like a blazing star breaking through pitch-black infinity. “Hurry up and pick. I want to know what your hate tastes like.”

It sounded inappropriate somehow, even though he’d meant it innocently, and there was no double meaning our eleven-year-old minds could scrounge up. Still, the both of us broke our gaze to look at anything but each other. I reached my hand into the Pop-Tart pouch and pulled out the first one my fingers found. Nick took the other.