Chapter 19
SADIE
“Joe!” I shout as I juggle coffee cups and his scone in my hands, opening the front door and noticing the hinges no longer groan in protest.
I head down the hallway toward the kitchen when an open door—Milo’s bedroom door—and movement within catches my attention. I slow my steps and peek through the crack.
There’s Milo wearing black-rimmed glasses, holding a New York Giants coffee mug, and staring into his phone, propped on a stand with a glowing ring of light around it. He’s moved his desk that is usually pushed up against a wall, so he can stand behind.
“And that’s why you can’t just trust what your teacher tells you, and that’s coming from a teacher.
There’s always more to a story than what’s been written in a book,” he says, his voice so warm that I find myself leaning in farther.
He lifts his mug in a toast. “Find me next week, here at Friday Night Footnotes. I’m Mr. Carter, and I want you to know—your history only tells where you’ve been, not where you’re allowed to go. ”
He sets the mug down on the desk in front of him.
“Hi, Mr. Carter,” I say as I open the door swiftly.
“Sadie!” he exclaims, fidgeting with the knot of his dark blue tie before removing his glasses and hurrying over to his phone, where he ends the recording. “What are you doing here?”
I grin. “It’s Saturday morning.” I lift the coffees and the bag with the scone in it. “The better question is, what are you doing?”
“I’m . . . um . . .” He looks around at his setup sheepishly. “Filming next Friday’s episode—for TikTok.”
“What’s with the glasses?” I smirk as I walk into his room, setting the coffees and small paper bag down on the desk so I can grab for the glasses. I put them on.
They’re totally fake.
His cheeks have grown redder, but his eyes don’t reflect embarrassment. Instead, he’s looking at me in a way that seems somewhat pained.
I pull the glasses down so I’m looking at him over the rims. “There’s this boy I knew who always bragged about his perfect vision,” I tease.
He closes the gap between us, slowly moving his hands up to gently slide the glasses off my face. He folds them and puts them on the desk, never taking his eyes off me. My heart shifts as if it was just knocked out of place, or maybe knocked back into it . . .
“They’re good for the part. People like props,” he replies, his voice as low as a hum.
My grin widens as I peek down at the desk. “Is there even any coffee in that mug?”
He picks it up and turns it upside down, spilling nothing. “Guilty.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I mutter.
He chuckles. “I think you once said you liked my kind of ridiculous.”
His breath is on my face, my own breath slowing.
In high school Milo’s kind of ridiculous usually consisted of making bets he fully intended to lose—like betting I couldn’t beat him on a history quiz just to owe me an hour of his time .
. . or betting I wouldn’t wear school colors to the football game so he could sprint to the bleachers and slide his hoodie over my shoulders like it had been his plan all along.
His hoodie that always smelled like clean cotton and something that was just him.
I clear my throat. “Where’s Joe? I brought his usual.”
“He’s not here. I took him to the café this morning so he could drink coffee with some other grumpy old men.”
A light laugh crawls up my chest and out my lips. “That was nice of you.”
His blue eyes are intent on me. “I don’t know about nice. I have a lot of time to make up for.”
“No, it was nice,” I argue.
“You brought him his usual?” he asks while sliding his arm around me.
The hairs on my arm reach out for him and my lips quiver as he leans in and then slowly straightens back up with one of the coffees in his hand, stepping back slightly and allowing oxygen to refill my lungs. He looks at the coffee cup. “Americano with a splash of cream?”
“It’s Joe’s,” I murmur.
He takes a sip and nods. “Want to split the scone?”
“Deal,” I say.
He begins to walk toward the door, scooping up my coffee and the bag with the scone in it on his way out of his old bedroom.
This old bedroom where I used to try to get him to understand that poetry isn’t just something you hear, but something you feel. Where I read chapters out loud because he said he understood it better when I read it than when he did.
Sunlight filters through the blinds, glistening on a silver frame on the nightstand. I tilt my head. I’ve been in here a few times since Milo left—dusting and vacuuming, trying to help Joe—and that frame was never here.
I walk to it, gently picking up the small frame.
I’ve never seen this photo.
It’s Milo and me.
He’s carrying me on his back, and my arms are stretched out wide as I smile up to the clear sky above. Milo’s not looking at the camera either. He’s looking up at me, his eyes wide and a lingering laugh traced upon his face.
“You coming, Bookworm?” Milo’s voice crawls into the room from the kitchen.
My old nickname.
I swallow hard and put the frame back down.
“Coming!” I shout back.
I walk to the kitchen, where Milo’s already put the scone on a small plate. He’s standing by the table, staring at my drink.
“What is this?” he asks.
“My coffee,” I answer.
“This isn’t an iced vanilla latte with a pump of caramel.”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
He reads the words off my cup. “It’s a raspberry-white-chocolate mocha.”
“It is.”
“Interesting.”
“Lacey says it’s really good,” I say as I step toward him, swiping my drink out of his hand and taking a sip, leaving a red imprint on the lid.
He’s staring at me with that charming grin—the one that used to make my stomach somersault. It’s attempting a tuck and roll right now.
“What?” I say.
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“That look wasn’t nothing.”
“I like the lipstick,” he says softly. “It’s very you.”
Warmth blooms beneath my skin. “Thanks.”
“Kind of hard to look at anything other than your lips, though,” he teases.
A smile stretches out before I can scold it.
I turn and look at the scone. “Looks like lemon blueberry today.”
Milo pulls a chair out for me. I sit, and he sits beside me as I break the scone into two pieces. Milo picks up his half and takes a huge bite.
“Hm.” He chews. “This is good.”
“Lacey makes the best,” I say before I take a small bite out of my half.
“I only remember Lacey as a seventh grader with braces. It’s strange that she owns and runs the coffee shop.”
“There’ve been a lot of changes even if it doesn’t seem like it. Life keeps moving on. People get older, the days turn into years, and well—” I pause before I say, “You miss a lot.”
I say the words more for myself, but I watch as Milo swallows hard and says, “I know.”
“But what did you say for your sign-off—on TikTok?” I ask brightly.
“Your history only tells where you’ve been, not where you’re allowed to go,” he says, his blue eyes steady on mine.
I think of the picture in his room. The list in my pocket. The girl in the mirror.
“Milo, I think it’s important you know something.”
He doesn’t say anything. He just waits for my words.
I inhale deeply. “I was really hurt when you left, and I know I told you to go. I left, too. But it hurt more when you didn’t come back.
” I say the second part quietly and pause when I notice him wince.
“But I’ve made some choices too—ones I’m not happy with—and I’m starting to realize it’s not what’s been done, but what I do now. ”
I lean slightly to the side and pull out the list, which is becoming slightly worn from traveling in my back pocket. I unfold it and place it in front of him.
He stares down at it, his finger softly moving down the side of the paper. Then he looks back up at me. “Just so you know, if I could go back . . .”
I put my hand on top of his on the table. “This is about now, and I need you to help me with this list. I need to remember who I was before . . .”
He looks at me. Really looks at me, his blue eyes clear and gentle, and I don’t feel like I need to fill in the gaps. Not right now.
He twists his hand so my palm falls against his, then he entwines his fingers with mine. “Then I think we need to pick something from this list.”
I squeeze his hand. “Didn’t you use to climb the water tower?”