A/N: Trigger warning for stalking in this chapter. Nothing terrible happens, but if you're someone who has stalking-related trauma like me, you might want to proceed with caution. If that's the case, you can skip to the line "Soon enough, my mom screeched into view, pulling up right next to me." Long story short, Nicolas was a bad boyfriend and he's an even worse ex. I went through something very similar at the end of my high school relationship, so a lot of this is based on my personal experience, with a few creative liberties of course because I wanted Claire to be braver than me and get the closure I never got.

This chapter is for anyone who's struggled with moving on. The world is waiting for you, whenever you're ready to go out and meet it. You can do this. You are brave enough. You are strong enough. You are smart enough. You are going to be okay.

Without any further ado, Chapter 249! I hope you enjoy!

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CLAIRE:

It was just supposed to be a fun trip to the mall.

I was excited about it. I was going to the mall with Lindsay and Nneka to look for new clothes for college. Nothing too crazy, but, well, I was ready for a change. I wanted clothes that would be comfortable for biking, first of all. Everyone biked in Davis, there were more bikes than people in Davis. I wanted nice clothes too, for internships or job interviews or whatever other opportunities happened to present themselves that would require a business casual outfit or two.

More than anything, though, I wanted clothes for partying. My high school wardrobe simply wasn't going to cut it anymore.

I got to the mall first, as evidenced by the fact that our designated meeting spot was vacant, so I made myself comfortable next to the fountain and waited.

I'd only been there for about two minutes when I got the sudden sense I was being watched.

It happened more often than I'd ever admitted to anyone, the creepy feeling that someone was watching me. I'd always just chalked it up to residual trauma, a hypervigilance resulting from the fact that something or someone had been in the woods that fateful night Lucy was taken from us. The feeling that I was being watched had never amounted to anything, so I'd always just done my best to brush it off.

It was easier said than done, though. That day in particular, I was convinced that someone was watching me.

I scanned my surroundings, sure that Lindsay and Nneka were somewhere nearby. Maybe I'd heard their distant voices somewhat subconsciously, maybe they were just approaching and I hadn't properly registered it yet.

But Lindsay and Nneka were nowhere to be seen. I settled back down onto the bench, reaching for my cell phone just in case. I flipped it open and closed until my friends arrived a couple minutes later. I shoved the feeling away and jumped to my feet, rushing over to greet them. If they could tell I was uneasy, they were kind enough not to mention it, and soon enough, we were hurrying in the direction of our first destination.

Just before I followed them through the doors, I cast one last look over my shoulder.

To my horror, I was right. I was being watched.

Nicolas was leaning up against the wall across the way, sunglasses on to hide his eyes but definitely positioned in a way that suggested he was looking directly at me.

Well, that explains it, I thought darkly to myself.

But I refused to let a coincidental crossing with my ex ruin the fun shopping trip that I'd been anticipating for weeks, so I merely marched into the store with renewed vigor and walked directly to the rack full of crop tops.

"Alright, you go, college girl!" Lindsay said, clearly impressed by my nerve. "Now you're talking."

"This one would be perfect," Nneka gushed as she reached for a dark purple one and held it up against my shoulders.

I grinned. "I want to try everything on."

Lindsay and Nneka exchanged a conspiratorial yet excited glance, and all three of us dove into the racks with no shortage of enthusiasm. Nneka was right, the dark purple crop top was perfect, and so was the bright pink one that Lindsay found. I spotted a cute pair of shorts, so I had one outfit taken care of by the time we left the first store.

I'd almost forgotten about Nicolas as we walked a short distance to the next store, but I looked around just in case to make sure he was gone.

He wasn't. He was walking behind us, in the same direction as us. He was walking far behind us, but I could still see him. He was looking down at the floor, so he didn't see that I had spotted him.

"You alright, Claire?" Nneka asked.

I nodded, looking forward again. "Yeah, sorry, I just — I heard that baby screaming," I lied. "Wanted to make sure everything was okay."

"I'm sure it's fine," Lindsay said dismissively.

"It?" Nneka repeated, giggling. "It's a baby, Linds, not an object."

"You said 'it's!'" Lindsay pointed out. "It might as well be an object. It offers nothing to any conversation, it just eats and poops and cries."

"What, and you don't?" I retorted.

"I do, but I can take care of myself and carry an interesting conversation, so that's two points for me, zero points for babies," Lindsay said, making Nneka and I both laugh.

"Well, I happen to enjoy babies quite a bit," I asserted. "I mean, you've met Patrick. He's a friendly little guy, and he's quite entertaining nowadays."

Nneka nodded enthusiastically. "He was so cute at your graduation party! Has he learned any new words since then?"

"Goodness, yes," I said. "I just visited the other day. He's getting good with names, and animals. He loves dogs in particular, he nearly squished my aunt's elderly maltipoo while trying to hug her. I practically had to peel him off of that poor dog."

"That kid could squish me," Lindsay said, shuddering. "A purse dog wouldn't stand a chance."

"Does he know your name?" Nneka asked.

I smiled as I nodded. "He does. Mine's easy, it's only one syllable. It sounds more like 'care' than 'Claire,' but I'll take it. It's closer to getting my name than he is to saying 'firetruck.' He calls firetrucks 'woo ding ding's and it's the cutest thing I've ever heard."

"Awwww!" Nneka exclaimed, and even Lindsay cracked a grin.

"That's cute," she admitted. "Now come on, let's go look for clothes that will warrant calling the fire department because you look hotter than a house fire."

I laughed and followed her into the store. I tried to forget about Nicolas, really I did, but he seemed to keep following us from store to store to store to store to store. He never followed us into any stores, but he was always lurking when we left and always followed us when we walked to the next one. Close enough that he could see me and I could see him, but not so close he alerted Lindsay or Nneka to his presence. I didn't think he even knew that I had spotted him, because I only ever looked for half a second at a time just to confirm that, yes, he was still creeping. I wasn't sure if that made it better or worse. I was determined not to ruin the shopping trip, though — I was having so much fun even with Nicolas stalking us — so I kept my mouth shut.

When the time came to go our separate ways because they'd parked on the opposite end of the parking lot, I looked around to see where Nicolas was, to make sure he didn't follow them. To my mingled despair and relief, he was nowhere to be seen. I watched as they headed to Lindsay's car, just to ensure that Nicolas didn't try to follow them, but I figured he wouldn't.

I was the one he wanted.

Once they were safely pulling away, I half-walked, half-jogged to my car, and I had nearly reached it when I screeched to a halt, blood running cold at the sight of a red car parked right next to mine.

Not only had Nicolas been following me all day, he was parked directly next to me. And he was sitting in his car, sunglasses still on, undoubtedly watching me.

I turned on my heel and half-walked, half-jogged all the way back to the mall, never turning around to see if he was following me. I hurried in the direction of the nearest women's restroom and locked myself in a stall, dropping my shopping bags and fumbling for my cell phone with shaking hands. My fingers automatically dialed the house phone, and my mom answered on only the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Mom," I choked out. "It's Nicolas. He's been following me at a distance the whole time I've been at the mall and now he's just sitting in his car which is conveniently right next to mine and I don't know what to do, I don't want to talk to him — "

"Claire, where are you right now?" Mom interrupted.

"Safe," I assured her. "In the girls' bathroom."

"Okay. I'll come get you. Your dad can get your car once he's home from work. I'm guessing you're parked on the opposite side of the mall from the movie theater?"

"Yeah."

"I'll pick you up by the movie theater. Walk with someone reliable if you can, a security guard or another woman. Girls support girls, you know? I'm sure if you explained the situation to a girl, she'd happily keep you company until I get there."

"Okay. Thanks, Mom."

"Of course, honey. Be safe. I'll be there in fifteen — actually, I can make it in ten minutes. Love you."

"Love you too. Bye."

"Bye."

I snapped the phone shut and inhaled shakily. I gathered up my bags and my courage and walked out of the bathroom, only to discover that Nicolas was, once again, hovering nearby.

I sighed and merely started marching in the opposite direction, toward the movie theater, not bothering to look for someone to walk with me. They would slow me down. I just wanted to get out of there. I cast a glance over my shoulder and realized with horror that he was following me at a much faster pace than he had before, and he'd removed the glasses, so I could see that he was staring at me.

He was deliberately trying to chase me.

But I was faster.

I was an athlete. Nicolas was a Boy Scout who'd failed to get his Personal Fitness badges on multiple occasions because of just how skinny he was. I didn't even have to run. I merely walked as fast as possible through the mall, weaving through crowds, knowing that as soon as I got to the movie theater, my mom would be only about five minutes away, if she was trying to get there in ten.

Nicolas was persistent, though. As soon as I got outside, he started jogging.

"Claire! Claire, wait, I just want to talk!" he called.

I ignored him and walked faster, shopping bags crashing against my legs as I hurried across the plaza to the movie theater. I stood on the curbside, looking around for my mom's car. When I didn't see it, I dropped the bags with a heavy sigh and turned to Nicolas.

"What the hell do you want?" I snarled, crossing my arms over my chest. I could easily beat him in a fight if necessary, if he tried to hurt me, I could snap him like a twig, but I didn't want to have to do that. I knew I could beat him in a fight, so I wasn't sure why I was still so terrified.

"I just — want to talk," he panted.

"What about? I was perfectly civil to you in school, we talked for the last six months of high school even though I really just wanted to pretend you had never existed. What could you possibly want to talk about that was so important you had to stalk me when I was just trying to have a nice day with my friends?"

Nicolas blinked. "I wasn't stalking you."

"What else would you call creepily following the girl who dumped your ass all around the mall?" I replied incredulously.

"I didn't think you'd see me," he said. "I just wanted to find a chance to talk to you alone, so — "

"So you stalked me," I finished for him.

Anger flared in his eyes. "Yes, well, you never talked to me one-on-one when we were still in school, and you didn't go to Andrew's birthday party — "

"First of all, I was busy that day, I was babysitting. Second of all, why would I go to Andrew's birthday party? He's your friend, not mine. I don't even know why he invited me, I thought he hated my guts for breaking your heart."

"I asked him to invite you, I wanted to talk to you — "

"In what world is that not creepy?" I asked. "In what world is that not completely and utterly pathetic?"

Nicolas huffed. "I'll ignore your insults if it means you'll finally talk to me — "

"I don't want to talk to you! At this point, I'll admit I'm a little curious about what could possibly be so damn important that you've had to go to such drastic lengths to talk to me. It can't be good, or else you would have had the guts to talk to me with Lindsay and Nneka around — "

"I think we should get back together."

I laughed before I could stop myself, before I realized he was being perfectly sincere. "Oh, you weren't kidding? Well, congrats Nic, you've got my attention. Now I do want to hear what you have to say, because I must admit I'm now morbidly curious about how you reached such a conclusion."

"I was so much happier with you than I have been without you," he said desperately. "I've spent the past seven months feeling like crying every time I looked at you. I'm still so in love with you. I know you were unhappy with me, but I can change, we can make it work this time — "

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, I'm going to stop you right there," I interrupted. "I told you I was unhappy long before we broke up. I gave you every chance to change, and you didn't, so I ended it. You don't get to decide that you're finally ready to listen after not listening for nearly three years and needing seven months to tell me you want to try again. I've given up on you, I've moved on from you, and I don't appreciate you trying to drag me back to your sorry ass just because you didn't know how good I was for you until I was gone."

"I realize now, I'd try harder — "

"It's a little late for that. Even if I did, hypothetically, say yes, what would happen two months from now when we're off to college?"

"I could visit you in Davis," he said. "You could visit me in Santa Barbara. I know how much you love it there. I chose UCSB over UCLA so you'd be more likely to visit — "

I laughed. "Bullshit! You got waitlisted at UCLA! I heard! You didn't get accepted to any of the prestigious big-city schools you wanted. I'm guessing you just committed to UCSB so you could tell people you'd decided instead of waiting around to find out if you got off the waitlist or not."

"That's not true," he spluttered. "Look, I still love you, even though you have problems."

My jaw dropped. "You really think that's going to win me back?"

"It's true! Everything about your life is tied back to your sister. What will you do if she never appears? The mystery of it would eat you alive and you'd spend your life chasing the impossible. I'm here though, and I'm real, and I still love you. Yes, you're stubborn, and you make me feel inferior to you whether you're trying or not, and you live your life afraid of your own shadow and have no real sense of self beyond Lucy, but that's okay. I still love you, I could do it right this time, I know what I'm getting into this time, I'm choosing you."

"That's cruel."

"I'm just being honest."

"Yeah, well, based on everything you just said, I'm guessing you only want me back because you miss the idea of having a girlfriend, not because you actually miss me," I snapped. "Look, I'm sure once you get to school, you'll find a girl who's a better match for you than I am and you'll come crawling back thanking me for dumping you. You'll find a girl who doesn't have my 'problems' and who tolerates yours. I hope you're better to her than you were to me, because I don't honestly think you're that bad of a person; I think you're insecure and it makes you act like a pathetic fool. When you're not feeling a desperate need for control, you're smart, and you're an Eagle Scout, and you're clever when it comes to giving people gifts. That said, you're manipulative, and selfish, and desperate, and you following me around all day was creepy, so I have zero desire to get back with you. I've moved on. I recommend you do the same. Maybe someone else will fall in love with a better version of you than what I got. Maybe you'll never grow and you'll be alone forever, always regretting that you didn't love me properly. You won't know until you try." I sighed. "I wish you luck. Really, I do. I loved you once, and we had good times together. I don't love you anymore, though, and I never will again. I hope you have a nice life, and I hope I never have to see your face again. If you try to follow me right now, I will scream and cause a scene, so I recommend you get lost."

I scooped my bags off the sidewalk with a huff and stalked off in the direction I knew my mom would be coming from. I studied the shadows on the ground cast by the afternoon sun, and to my relief, I saw only my own. He wasn't following me.

Soon enough, my mom screeched into view, pulling up right next to me.

I tossed my shopping bags in the back seat and climbed into the passenger seat, deflating with a sigh.

"Are you okay?" Mom asked. "Is that him in the distance?"

I nodded. "Yeah. We talked."

"Oh no. And?"

"He's pathetic, and I told him as much," I said.

Mom reached over and squeezed my knee briefly before pulling away from the curb. "Good for you. Do you want to talk about it more?"

"He was so mean, Mom," I admitted, my bravery crumbling into ash since I finally felt safe. "He said I don't have a sense of self outside of Lucy."

"Oh, what is wrong with him?" Mom burst out angrily.

"He said I was stubborn too, but I know that's true. He said I make him feel inferior to me, but that sounds more like his issue than mine, I was valedictorian, he wasn't, I know that must have bothered him. But I — I — what he said about Lucy really hurt."

"Not only is it uncalled for, it's untrue," Mom said. "We always loved you as your own people, even before... you were always different. You were perfectly content being different."

"How so?" I asked after a moment. "I remember certain things, of course, but — I was so little, I don't always trust my own recollections."

Mom nodded, not taking her eyes off the road. "I understand. Well, growing up, Lewis and Lisa always tried to copy me; I think it's quite common for siblings to copy each other, especially younger siblings who want to be like their older siblings. Lucy never tried to copy you, though, she wasn't shy about pursuing her own interests when they didn't align with yours. She loved you and loved spending time with you, of course, but if she wasn't interested in whatever you were doing, she would just tell you she was going to be doing something else and that if you wanted to play with her, that was what she would be doing. You followed her nearly as much as she followed you. You never tried to copy each other, though, not really. You loved each other as you were."

"Do you think we still will?" I whispered.

"Oh, honey, of course." Mom reached out to rub her hand reassuringly against my arm, keeping one hand on the wheel. "A love like yours is not fragile enough to be damaged by distance or time. You'll always love each other like that. I'm sure of it."

I nodded, my throat too clogged with tears to speak aloud. I knew she was right. I just — I wanted proof just the same. I wanted her back. I wanted to know, tangibly, not just abstractly.

I missed my sister. I missed Lucy.

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I was in a strange mood the day after the mall incident. I found myself reflecting on high school, something I'd tried to avoid in the seven weeks since I'd graduated, and on my childhood, something I tried to avoid, period. I had recently made a concerted effort to not look back, only ahead, and try to get excited about the future that was waiting for me.

I was excited, as evidenced by the fact that I'd suggested the shopping trip in the first place. I'd gotten a new bike, and my morning run with Dad had turned into a morning bike ride three days a week — we both loved running too much to give it up entirely, so we still jogged the other two weekday mornings. In the absence of homework, I'd been spending as much time with Lindsay and Nneka as possible, but whenever they were busy, I was quite content to sit at home reading any book I could get my hands on.

The day after talking to Nicolas, though, Lindsay was leaving for vacation and Nneka was leaving for a week-long soccer camp, so I was on my own. No book could keep my attention, and nothing good was on TV, so I grabbed my keys and told Mom I was going to head over to the high school and see if Ms. Vries was there, saying that I wanted to ask for book recommendations since I'd enjoyed her class so much more than any of my other English classes. That was part of my reason for going, certainly, but more than that, I wanted to talk about the Mango Street assignment. I truthfully hadn't stopped thinking about it since September, but I couldn't get it off my mind that day and I just wanted to talk to someone who would understand.

I hadn't shared the assignment with anyone other than Ms. Vries. Not my parents, not my friends, not even Nicolas even though we'd been together at the time. And something had occurred to me that was odd about the way she'd presented the assignment, so I wanted to ask about that. And, well, I just wanted to talk to an adult I trusted who wasn't Mom or Dad. I loved my parents very much and I trusted my parents with a great deal, more than any of my friends loved or trusted theirs, but they were my parents and had been for almost eighteen years. I almost always accurately predicted what they were going to say or do. I wanted a new perspective, and my AP Chem teacher had complained about the week in July where teachers were all required to come in and plan, so I knew they'd all be there.

The biggest reason, though, was that Ms. Vries had mentioned once offhandedly that she'd grown up in our town, but she'd lived somewhere else for ten years before coming back. I wanted to know more about that. I wanted to know why she'd left, and why she'd come back, if she was willing to tell me.

So there I was, walking across campus in the direction of her classroom, oddly anxious but still feeling like what I was doing was right.

I opened the door just a crack, and Ms. Vries turned to face me, smiling when she saw it was me. "Oh, hi, Claire! To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from you on this sweltering July day?"

"Do you mind if I come in?" I asked shyly.

"Please do." Ms. Vries pushed herself away from her desk and swiveled on her chair to face me, gesturing toward a chair I could sit in. "I've been using the same lesson plans for years at this point, and I do honestly keep trying to find ways to make the curriculum better, but, well, no books I've read quite hold a candle to the ones already on the syllabus, and I don't really know what to expect from each group of students until they're in my class, so I'm not terribly fond of this required week of sitting here and reading when I could be home instead. But I am here, and you are here, and I'm assuming you have a reason for being here when you don't have to be. What's on your mind?"

"Quite a bit," I admitted. "I've been having doubts about going away for school, and I remembered you saying something about moving away and moving back. I want to go away for school, I've been trying to let myself be excited about it, but... well, as you read in my Mango Street assignment, I have mixed feelings about a lot of facts of life, like the passage of time. It feels like everyone in the world is super super excited about going to college except for me."

Ms. Vries nodded. "I must say, yours was the best submission for that assignment I've ever received. It was so honest, and raw. I felt like you poured your heart and soul into that assignment. I intentionally left the assignment open to interpretation, so everyone could be as vulnerable or invulnerable as they wanted, but your vulnerability was brave." She studied me for a long moment. "It's okay if you move on. It's okay if you want to move on, and it's okay if you don't want to move on but choose to move on anyway. It's okay to stay, too."

"It is?" I asked softly.

"Of course it is. I know that the traditionally-established hero's journey narrative involves a departure from home, but if you're in a safe, healthy, loving place and you want to stay, that's okay too. You can grow right where you are, as long as you have the right support and resources and the motivation to do so."

I nodded, processing her words in silence for a moment. "So what do you think I should do?"

"Oh, I have no idea," she replied. "I'm not you."

"I know, it's just — you left, then you came back. Do you wish you had stayed?"

"No, not at all. But that's me, that's my life. In a lot of ways, life could have been better for me if I had never gone away to school. But if I had stayed, I would have missed out on a lot of joy, and that joy was valuable even though it didn't last forever. Nothing lasts forever anyway, so, in my personal experience, it's worth trying to make the most of the goodness you have in your life while you have it. That can mean staying where you are when it's good, and that can mean searching for something better elsewhere. Both are valuable, but you have to be the one who decides what course you want your life to take." Ms. Vries looked at me like she could see right through me. "Don't let anyone make your decisions for you, okay? You can ask for help, guidance, advice, but ultimately the person who knows what's best for you is you."

I swallowed my despair. "I just want to do right by my sister, wherever she is, and my parents, and... what if I don't know what's best for me?"

"You'll know," Ms. Vries replied. She sighed softly. "Look, I... I'm not telling you this because it's easy. You sound a lot like I did when I was your age, wanting to just make everyone around me happy. I didn't learn until much later just how important it is to take the time to really sit with yourself and figure out what matters most to you." She paused for a long moment, seemingly wrestling with herself. "I'm fairly confident that you are one of the students who might have noticed how little I share about my personal life in the classroom."

"Yeah. Most of what I learned about you was, uh, a complete accident," I said, nodding.

Ms. Vries turned a vibrant shade of red, surely remembering the morning of April Fool's Day too. "Right. Uh, exactly. Well, um, I think there's something to be said for teachers sharing certain aspects of their lives with their students, to make them feel more human, but it's a fine line to walk. Oversharing can be harmful. Now that you're not technically my student, though, I think you'd benefit from knowing why I feel so comfortable telling you to just make your own decisions even though I understand why you'd prioritize the desires of your family and friends over your own." She bit her lip for a second. "Living your life for someone else isn't as noble as you might think it is. This is true even and perhaps especially when tragedy strikes. Even when it feels like your world has turned upside down, you are still in control of your life, and it's up to you to do what's best for you. The person who taught me that died before the lesson truly sank in." She inhaled shakily. "He was my best friend. Before he died, he made me promise that I would fight for my own happiness even when he wasn't there to try to force the lesson into my thick skull. I promised him without really meaning it and without realizing just how difficult it would be to mean it, and it was years before it finally clicked, but it did, and he was right. I'm not saying your sister is dead, I know that no one knows, but I know how you must feel like you owe her something, or that you owe your family something. But at the end of the day, the people who love you most will want you to be happy. Nobody truly knows how to make you happy except for you. It's up to you to find that happiness and chase it and hold onto it."

She turned in her chair and reached into a backpack that was sitting open on the floor, and she whispered something I couldn't quite catch before she sat back up and handed me a photograph.

I studied it closely for a minute. It was a photograph of two teenagers, a boy and a girl, both laughing, both radiating so much joy it was palpable even in the faded photograph that was definitely at least twenty years old. In all honesty, the boy was beautiful, with dark curly hair and a picture-perfect smile. The girl was surely Ms. Vries, just twenty years younger and looking unbeliavably happy. There was a sense of freedom about younger Ms. Vries that I had never seen from present-day Ms. Vries, who always kept her cards close to her chest and her hair in such a tight bun and her wicked scars and tattoos so diligently covered by sweaters and slacks, even on that hot July day. In contrast, the younger Ms. Vries was wearing a mens' white button-up short-sleeved shirt and cutoff denim shorts and cherry red Converse, no scars or tattoos in sight. The boy next to her was wearing nothing more than green swim trunks, and he was looking somewhat proud of himself as he looked at the younger version of Ms. Vries, who was oblivious to this as she laughed with carefree abandon. I couldn't tell where they were, the background was dark and indistinguishable, but their ebullience was tangible.

"I'm guessing this is you?" I asked.

Ms. Vries nodded. "Anyway, that's me, and that's him. That moment of happiness was fleeting, but, well, as you can see, it existed. I carry it around with me to remind myself that it existed."

"What you said, about the cameras, and pictures," I said slowly, "on April Fool's Day..."

Ms. Vries nodded again. "I have whole scrapbooks of pictures like this one. It's just one of my favorites, so I keep it with me. To some extent, yes, that happiness is in the past, and I can never have it again. He's dead. But it existed, and I have the memory of it, and I have this little scrap of paper. I have both tangible and intangible proof that it existed, and, well, I tend to think it's quite worthwhile to chase more moments like this night at the lake with a small group of our friends. I'm sure you have memories like that with your sister, but I know for a fact you have memories like that with your friends, even after she disappeared. They can be equally valuable, if you let them."

"I don't suppose you have any of those pictures too?"

"You know, normally I don't," she said, reaching into her backpack again and whispering something else I couldn't catch. She spoke at a normal volume when she turned back to face me and handed me another picture. "But just this morning I was thinking about this moment and plucked it from a scrapbook to keep it with me today. This was after my best friend died, but, well, as you can see, I still found reasons to smile."

I handed her the picture of her with her best friend back so I could study the new picture. Ms. Vries looked older in that picture, but not much older. In true 70s fashion, she was wearing bell-bottom jeans, with a bright red sweater and the same red Converse. She was giggling at a boy, who appeared to be her same age, who was holding an orange cat out to her. The cat appeared to be wearing a little yellow and green shirt, and it looked happy about it, to my surprise. The boy looked even happier about it — his smile was so bright I found myself smiling back at him even though he was, in that moment, just a bit of ink on a page, the moment frozen in time. When I looked away from his smile, I noticed his glasses and his messy curls, and I finally noticed that he was wearing an identical yellow and green shirt to the cat.

"Are they wearing matching shirts?" I asked, still smiling.

Ms. Vries grinned and nodded. "He was very excited about it. He thought it would cheer me up, and as you can see, he was correct."

I handed the picture back to her. "Thank you for showing me those. I think I see your point now."

"Of course. I'm glad. Love will find you wherever you go, Claire Everlin, I am sure of that much. You're a good person who cares deeply, and people are drawn to people like you. It's okay to go. It's okay to stay. This is strictly my personal experience — once again, only you can decide what's best for you — but for what it's worth, I don't regret my time spent away from this town. I love it, but I know leaving was for the better, even though it was difficult at the time."

"Do you regret coming back?" I asked.

"It's incredibly complicated," she said with a strained smile. "You can worry about the 'coming back' part of leaving later. One step at a time."

I nodded. "Right. Well, thank you for talking to me, Ms. Vries. Sorry for just barging in on your planning, but I just... needed someone to talk to other than my parents. They're great, really they are, I couldn't ask for better, but at this point I think I'd know what they'd say if I told them I was feeling conflicted about this."

"I understand. A new perspective can go a long way." Ms. Vries smiled more genuinely. "And please don't apologize. I needed a new perspective too. Thank you for talking to me. And you're not my student anymore, you can call me Jo if you'd like."

I blinked. "I'm afraid I've fallen victim to the 'I forget that my teachers are human beings with first names' trap, even with accidentally running into you that one day."

"I understand, it's alright," she replied, chuckling.

"It suits you, though," I said. "Jo. You feel like more of a Jo than a Ms. Vries, to me. Anyway, while I'm here, I've been doing quite a bit of reading already this summer, but Lindsay and Nneka will both be gone for the next week, so... do you happen to have any book recommendations?"

Ms. Vries — Jo — lit up and reached for a pen and paper. "Oh boy, do I. Tell me what books you enjoyed most from my class, and I'll tailor my recommendations to your tastes."

So, a short while later, I walked off of my high school campus for what I thought might be the last time, with a list of book recommendations in my hand and a new determination in my heart.

🩵💛❤️💜🩷

As soon as I got home that day, I went directly to the bookshelf in Mom's craft room.

Jo Vries was not the only one with haunted scrapbooks.

I could never bring myself to look at any, before that moment. Mom's scrapbooking was her refuge, I had always known that. Dad had his video camera, and Mom had her digital one. Both before and after Lucy's disappearance, they had worked together to document our little livelihood.

Dad had been in the Army before I was born. Not by choice, not at all by choice, he'd been drafted. He didn't talk about his experiences in Vietnam, not with me at least, but I knew it had changed him. It hadn't hardened him, though. There were no sharp edges left. He was in too many small pieces for there to be sharp edges. He was shattered glass ground to dust, soft and small. But glass could be recycled, if patiently mixed with sand and other materials and tenderly reformed into something new. Never the same, but beautiful once again. He intertwined himself with Mom, and they worked together to lay the foundation of a family that had joy, and hope, and perseverance, and bravery, and love, and gentleness, and unity. Then I came along on August 10, 1979, and the scrapbooks started, and then Lucy came along on May 23, 1980, and the scrapbooks hadn't stopped since.

I had a scrapbook, and so did Lucy. Mom had made each scrapbook with the same number of pages. Her plan was to have the first page be a picture of the day we were born, the last page to be a picture of us on the day we turned eighteen, with a two-page spread in between dedicated to each year of our lives from birth to legal adulthood.

Mom had lots of other scrapbooks, too. She loved taking pictures. She had whole scrapbooks filled with pictures from a single holiday season, both with and without Lucy. She had scrapbooks dedicated to pictures of her gardens through the years, to pictures of her favorite places, her favorite people. I knew she wiled away slow days and sleepless nights in her craft room, trying so desperately to cling to the memories she'd managed to capture in photographs. She never let her scrapbooking hobby make her distant, but I'd always understood that it was her escape when Lucy's absence was too loud, when Dad wasn't enough, when I was too much.

I hadn't looked at any of the scrapbooks since Lucy had disappeared. I couldn't bring myself to do it. I knew Mom found it comforting, but I couldn't think of anything less comforting. I didn't want to see the pictures with Lucy. I didn't want to see the pictures without Lucy. I didn't want to turn a page full of pictures with Lucy to a page full of pictures without Lucy. I was afraid of what I would find in the scrapbooks. I was afraid of what I wouldn't find in the scrapbooks.

But that day, I felt brave.

I reached for the scrapbook labeled CLAIRE and the scrapbook labeled LUCY and sprawled on the floor.

I opened Lucy's first.

The first page was what I expected. A picture of newborn Lucy in a little pink blanket, staring up at the ceiling with wide sky-blue eyes even then. Written below it in calligraphy was Baby Sky Eyes — Born May 23, 1980 at 5:46 AM — 7 pounds, 8 ounces. The page was light blue, sky blue, and decorated with cutouts of white puffy clouds and small yellow stars and fiery birds of red and scarlet and orange. Phoenixes, I realized after a moment of staring.

I didn't even realize I was crying until my vision went blurry because of the tears that had shot to my eyes without warning. I put Lucy's book to the side and tried to chase my tears away by opening my own book.

The first page was a picture of me in a similar pink blanket, but rather than staring at the ceiling, I was looking directly into the camera. Below the picture, written in the same calligraphy, was Baby Ocean Eyes — Born August 10, 1979 at 7:47 PM — 8 pounds, 7 ounces. The page was dark blue, ocean blue, and decorated with cutouts of green seaweed and small white bubbles and a rainbow of fish of all shapes and sizes.

I flipped the page and found the words FIRST YEAR OF LIFE across the top of the next spread. The pages were filled with pictures that appeared to be arranged in chronological order from left to right. The left page had pictures of me by myself, and me with Dad, and me with an increasingly-pregnant Mom. The right page had pictures of me lying side-by-side with newborn Lucy, sleeping in a tired-looking Dad's arms, smiling on my no-longer-pregnant Mom's knee, destroying my first birthday cake. Both pages were decorated with an oceanic theme, with frames of seashells and surfboards, more white bubbles and more rainbows of fish, and borders of seaweed and waves.

I turned to the second year of my life, then the third, then the fourth, then the fifth, then the sixth. I watched myself grow up, and I watched Lucy grow up too. I saw my first time chasing a soccer ball, and my first time chasing Chewbacca. I saw Funshine Bear and Tenderheart Bear side-by-side because Funshine Bear was in my arms and Tenderheart Bear was in Lucy's and we were side-by-side. One of my favorite pictures was a close-up of the two of us at the beach with our arms thrown around each other and our cheeks pressed together, the ocean and the sky painting a blue backdrop behind us. I lost myself in that picture, as if I could sear it into my memory if I stared at it long enough. I wasn't sure how much time had passed before I was brave enough to turn the page.

My seventh year of life, in between ages six and seven, was when I'd lost Lucy.

Only one of the pictures in the spread actually included Lucy. The rest, from that Christmas onward, were different. Even if I was still smiling in the pictures, even though those smiles got more sincere over time, there was something missing. It wasn't necessarily that Lucy was missing from the pictures, though that was, obviously, still the case. Many of the pictures before that spread hadn't included Lucy. Mom and Dad had loved us as our own people. But I could see something in my eyes that had changed. There was a new uncertainty there, a new fear there, a new grief there.

I hurriedly flipped to the next page. I wanted to stop, I wanted to put the scrapbooks back on the shelf and forget I'd ever reached for them, but I knew I couldn't. I had started on this journey, and I couldn't stop.

I continued watching myself grow up, without Lucy. I watched as me chasing a soccer ball turned into medals and trophies. I watched as I donned a basketball jersey, a swimsuit and goggles, and as I started running just for the sake of running. I watched Lindsay and Nneka grow up with me, always sandwiching me in between them as if I wouldn't notice Lucy wasn't by my side anymore if they held onto me tight enough. I watched as Nicolas entered the picture, I watched us go to school dances and cringed at how obvious it was in hindsight that I wasn't truly happy with him. I watched myself grow up without Lucy, I watched myself chase accomplishments in the futile attempt to fill the hole Lucy left in our family, the hole Lucy left in me.

I flipped to the last page and saw that it was incomplete. I wasn't eighteen yet.

I wasn't sure how I felt about the emptiness.

I set my book aside and reached for Lucy's.

Her pages were similar to mine in terms of what types of pictures were included. There were pictures of her with me, different pictures than the ones in my scrapbook, and pictures of her with Mom and with Dad. One notable difference between my pictures and hers was the sheer number of animals she surrounded herself with. There were pictures of her holding bugs with expressions of utmost delight on her face. There were several pictures of her with Chewbacca, and with many other dogs and cats. I remembered that Lucy had loved animals, but I realized in that moment that she had loved animals.

Her pages were different in terms of how they were decorated, too. The pages were sky blue, with picture frames of clouds and leaves, surrounded by kites and phoenixes, with rays of sunshine streaking proudly across the background. Mom had taken the whole "Ocean Eyes" and "Sky Eyes" thing really seriously, I realized as I flipped from page to page.

The scrapbook abruptly stopped when she disappeared. Her sixth year of life spread was incomplete. I flipped from page to page to page to page after it, overwhelmed by the emptiness. My emptiness was limited to one page, and I knew it would be finished in just a couple short weeks. Lucy's was more empty than not.

A quiet sob tore from my throat as I slammed her book shut and rested my head down on top of it. Even when she came back, the scrapbook would never live up to what it was supposed to be. Maybe somehow there would be pictures of her growing up, but they would be somewhere else, with someone else. Even if there were pictures, somehow, even if they were good pictures, somehow, the scrapbook would still feel wrong. Mom had so painstakingly crafted mine year after year, sifting through hundreds of pictures to choose only the very best once, carefully documenting the story of my life as best she could.

Lucy's, though? Lucy's was incomplete and would be until further notice. Chances were she would turn eighteen and it would remain untouched in the craft room.

I was still lying facedown in the craft room crying and hugging Lucy's scrapbook when I heard the door creak open behind me.

"Ah," Dad said, lowering himself to the ground beside me and patting my back comfortingly. "Mom said she thought you were up here. She got the sense you wanted to be left alone, but I wanted to come bother you."

"You're not a bother," I protested, voice muffled by my arms.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.

I shrugged as I lifted my face and turned to face him. "I just never... I'd never looked at these before."

"It's been a long time since I have," Dad said, reaching for my book. "Did you have a favorite?"

"Yeah," I replied as I sniffled and flipped to the right page for him, pointing to the picture of Lucy and me on the beach. "That one."

He nodded, eyes misting over as he looked at it. "That was the day after she almost drowned, you know."

"The day after... what?" I blinked. "I don't... remember that."

"I'm kinda glad to hear that," he said. He offered me a shaky smile before returning his attention to the picture. "Your mom and I, we... well, we didn't want it to traumatize either of you, so we tried to keep our cool as much as possible since it all turned out okay. You were distracted anyway. You were playing with Lucy in the water, and you had just stepped on a sharp rock, so you came to get us to look at it. I looked down for a second, and when I looked back up, Lucy was watching you too, completely unaware of the massive wave coming up behind her. I shouted at her to look out and started racing toward her, but it was too late, it had swallowed her before I got there. I dove right in to try to find her, obviously, but I — I couldn't find her at first, and when I did finally find her, she was just spinning wildly, her floatie nowhere to be seen. I grabbed her and shoved her up out of the water so she could breathe, but another wave came by at that exact moment and pushed us both deeper again. I almost lost my grip on her, but I didn't, and I got us to shore again as fast as I possibly could. She wasn't hurt, just scared, understandably, and choking on that much saltwater can't have been particularly pleasant." He shuddered, a tear rolling down his cheek. "The way she was crying and clinging to me broke my heart. I thought — I hoped that was the closest I'd ever come to losing her. I... I was wrong."

"Oh," I whispered. "Dad, that's awful, I'm sorry. So this picture, taken the day after...?"

"We were both just so happy Lucy was okay, and so shaken up thinking about what could have happened, that we had to take the picture."

"I understand." I stared at the picture. "We look so close to the water. Wasn't she scared?"

Dad shook his head, smiling a bit. "We expected her to be. We even asked if she'd rather go to an arcade or go mini-golfing or something like that instead of going back to the beach the next day. She just told us something along the lines of, 'Why would I be scared of the water when Claire will be there playing with me, and Mommy and Daddy will be watching from the beach, and Daddy will be right there to save me again?'"

A half-laugh, half-sob punched out of me. "Oh."

"Yeah," he said, voice strangled by the same combination of laughter and tears. "She was fearless, especially when you were there. She said something, too, about how she shouldn't be afraid of the ocean because you're the ocean and she'd never ever be scared of you."

"Well, that's a relief, I suppose," I replied. "I guess that explains why I've never afraid of airplanes, then, since she's the sky."

Dad smiled. "That's a nice way of thinking about it. Anyway, after that, we got new floaties for you both, the kind that go around your arms, in the brightest colors imaginable, and made sure you both understood the importance of not turning your back to the ocean — "

"Yeah, that I remember," I interrupted, nodding. "Now that you're saying all of this, I do vaguely remember this happening, I just never realized how serious it was. I remember hurting my foot and then you coming back with Lucy, who was coughing and crying, and I assumed she'd just gotten hit by a big wave or something, nothing that serious. And I remember the ocean safety lecture, I think about it every time I'm at the beach." I snorted and reached for Lucy's book, pretending to hit Dad over the head with it. "Never turn your back on me, I'll get you."

"AAAAHHHH, oh no!" He dropped my scrapbook and jumped to his feet, running toward the door. Just before he disappeared, he smiled at me. "Anyway, dinner will be ready soon, but give us a holler if you need anything in the meantime, okay?"

"Okay, Dad," I said, returning to the scrapbooks as he closed the door behind him.

I flipped through the empty pages of Lucy's scrapbook, letting myself get lost in thought.

The blankness was a testament to the tragedy that had befallen her, befallen us. The unknown was scary, and it was painful. No one knew where Lucy was or what she was doing. Many people believed she wasn't anywhere at all. Many people believed she was gone, and that the pages would remain empty.

I didn't, though. I knew that, one day, Lucy would come back, and we'd take enough pictures to fill dozens if not hundreds of scrapbooks, to make up for all of the pages she should have been occupying all along.

Staying in the house we'd once called home wouldn't bring her back any sooner, though.

Lucy's pages were empty, and that was horrible, but that didn't mean that I had to consign myself to the same fate. I didn't have to sit there in the emptiness and try to will it into something whole, when it wasn't and wouldn't be until Lucy was back. I could chase happiness, and fill my own scrapbook with my own memories.

And just like that, the emptiness became an opportunity. The hole where Lucy had once been would remain a hole, but that didn't mean that I had to let it eat away at me until there was nothing left of me.

I needed to get out of that house, out of that town, and go see more of the world.

I wanted to get out of that house, out of that town, and go see more of the world.

Maybe it would hurt. Maybe it wouldn't.

Maybe I would regret it. Maybe I wouldn't.

But like so many people had been telling me, I deserved a fresh start. I wanted to go somewhere that I could just be Claire, not the surviving half of Claire and Lucy. I wanted to live in a place that didn't scream Lucy's name at every turn. I wanted to go somewhere I could lose myself in academics and athletics as well as friendships and parties, and I wanted to find myself along the way.

I was ready to take scrapbooking into my own hands. I was ready to throw myself into a new world with a camera and a dream and chase the joy everyone wanted me to find — the joy that I wanted me to find. And if I didn't find it, then, well, at least I tried.

Maybe I'd find hope along the way too. Maybe I wouldn't.

It felt a bit like giving up, going away. It felt like my vigil was coming to an end. It felt like I was extinguishing the metaphorical candle in the window, waiting for Lucy to follow the light all the way home. It felt like abandoning hope.

I wasn't, though, not really. I knew that Lucy would come back whether I was there waiting for her when she walked through that door or not. I'd always be waiting for her, no matter where I was. Waiting didn't always have to be passive, though. Waiting didn't have to mean putting my life on hold indefinitely just so I could cling to hope with both hands.

I could keep my hope that she'd come back in my pocket, and I could use my hands to hold onto something else. Something more tangible than the flickering candle of hope.

Mom and Dad would stay. I knew that they'd never leave. They would keep their candles alive and keep their vigil for their baby girl lost in the woods a continent away. They had gotten to know who they were without Lucy. They'd lived lives before I was born, before she was born, before we lost her. I'd known life without Lucy, but I'd never truly known me without Lucy. I had never wanted to know myself without Lucy. I had never wanted to let her go, never wanted to move on.

But the time had come to reach out with both hands and find joy and not let it go. I would keep my candle of hope with me in my back pocket, not actively lit but ready to be ignited again if I needed it. In the meantime, I was going to go find myself, somewhere in the big scary unknown.

I was as ready to run as I would ever be.