Page 70

I turned slowly, trying to keep from screaming, and yes. There they were.

My parents.

I’m not going to lie: I had occasionally googled them over the years to see if they were dead. I’d come back with photos of them on social media with friends, so I knew vaguely how they’d aged, but it was still jarring seeing them here in person with those extra years painted on their faces. My mom’s dark pixie cut was going silver above her ears, and her cheeks were thinner. My dad had packed on a belly, and the bags under his eyes had gotten pouchy.

My mom stepped forward. Her lips stretched into a smile. “What a surprise. Or is it? Did you remember that we liked to stay here whenever we went out for a night in the city? Some part of you must have.”

I could barely hear her over the sound of my heart thudding inside my skull. Since when had they ever come here? I knew it had been a lot of years, but I couldn’t imagine that, unless they’d won the lottery or something, their financial situation had changed all that much. I’d never heard of this hotel before, that much I knew.

Or had I? Somehow speaking with my parents always made me unsure what I knew and what I didn’t know.

Mrs. Landskroner popped into my head. Maybe after seeing that Seth and I had been at the cookie decorating event, she’d struck up a conversation with Bev and Benjamin. Learned that Seth and I would be here at the Eighth Night Ball. Leaked the information to my mom.

I cleared my throat, which was suddenly very dry. “You never came here,” I whispered. I did know that. I wasn’t crazy.

The smile my mom gave me was an apologetic one. “Of course we’ve come here, Abigail. You must remember.” She turned to Seth. “Our Abigail is a lovely girl, but you may have noticed that she sometimes has trouble with the truth.”

Oh, god. They hadn’t changed a bit. This was like I’d stepped into a nightmare.

Seth’s hand found my back, reinforcing it, giving me strength.

But not enough. I ran. Again.

23

I didn’t think about where I was going, I just raced blindly from the room. Fortunately, not in the direction I’d come from, because I think the sensory overload of that ballroom might have made me full-on collapse. Honestly, I didn’t even remember the journey or how I got there; I just found myself in the hotel gym, the lights flickering on above me as I burst inside. It was empty, but it still smelled like sweaty socks and rubber. Trying to slow my heart rate so that it wouldn’t explode, I set myself down on one of the weight benches.

My phone buzzed in my clutch. I didn’t want to look at it, but I did. It was Seth. Abby, where are you?

Just as I let out a deep, shaky breath and started preparing myself to respond, the gym door creaked open. I jumped to my feet and braced myself for whoever was going to come in, so tense the weights on this machine could have fallen on me and probably just bounced off, but it was only Seth. “There you are,” he said. “What was that? Those were your parents?”

I nodded, unable to speak. And then, because it seemed very important to ask, “Did you believe them? When they said I had trouble with the truth?”

Seth’s face pinched with concern. “Of course not. After what you told me, I’d never believe a word they said.” He was quiet for a moment. “Did you think I might?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” I shook my head. “My parents spent years warping everything around me. Playing games with my head, making me think I was crazy, punishing me for breaking rules I didn’t know existed. I didn’t know what was normal, and what wasn’t. All I knew was that it was safest—not safe, nothing was ever safe—if I didn’t share anything with them, because anything extra they knew they could use against me.” I wasn’t talking about this specific meeting anymore. I wondered if Seth knew that. I wanted him to know that. “So I was always afraid to share things with people. With friends. With you.”

Something glittered in Seth’s eyes. It took me a second to realize it was fury. It took me another second, one where I almost shrank away, to realize it wasn’t aimed at me.

That gave me the courage to go on. “And I think it became a habit I couldn’t break. One I didn’t want to break. Because what was the point? I never thought it was worth it to let people in. Or maybe it’s that I never found anyone worth it.”

“You’ve opened up to me,” Seth said softly.

I had. Maybe not as much as he would have, or a “normal” person would have, but I’d opened up and let him in. “And I think that’s why I freaked out so much when we kissed,” I told him. “The first time. Because I knew I was letting myself open up, and I panicked that I’d get hurt. But I…” I took a deep breath. “I’m starting to think it might be worth it. At least a little bit. With you. And I don’t want to close myself off again.”

“Oh, Abby.”

But I wasn’t done. “Losing my parents and closing myself off from the world didn’t only mean losing my family,” I said. “It meant losing the community I’d grown up in. It meant not feeling Jewish anymore. And it felt like a part of me was missing, like I’d lost a leg without noticing and just accustomed myself to hobbling around without it. But coming back to the community through you didn’t just make me want to be with you; it made my leg grow back. Or maybe gave me a really good prosthetic. This Hanukkah made me remember everything I was missing. And I don’t want to lose it again.”

Seth cupped my chin between his hands. “Abby,” he said tenderly. “Whether or not you choose to be part of your family, or whether you’re part of my family, you’re always part of this family. The Jewish family. You can never lose your place here. You can’t get rid of us. You’re home.”

It had been years since I’d cried for real, anything beyond a few tears while slicing an onion or getting teary when I was panicking really hard. But now the tears welled up and overflowed, spilling down my cheeks and splashing onto the rubber mats of the floor. My instinct was to duck my head and turn away, like somehow I could make it so that Seth hadn’t seen, but I forced myself to stay upright. Stay strong. Let him see. I knew he wouldn’t think I was weak for it. Hell, he’d probably say something inspirational about how strong I was being.

“Crying is a sign of strength, you know,” he said earnestly, and the tears melted into laughter. I nestled my cheek against his chest. He’d already have to get the tux dry-cleaned; a few tears—okay, a lot of tears—wouldn’t permanently stain. “It’s a scientific thing. The tears move stress hormones out of your body or something. It makes you feel better.”

These tears must have been transporting years’ worth of built-up stress hormones, then, because I could feel the tension in my body melting away. Not all of it, obviously—crying wasn’t some kind of black magic. But enough of it where I felt like I could be a little vulnerable again. “I don’t know if I want kids.” I took a deep breath. “I’ve never felt a superstrong urge to have them, but I don’t know if that’s because the only way I know of raising kids is how I was raised, and I could never do that to a kid.”

“I don’t know if I want kids, either,” Seth said. “If I do, it won’t be for years, at least. So we can figure that out later.”