When I wasn’t busy forgetting things, I was keeping an eye out for Oliver. I normally didn’t see him until lunchtime, but I caught a glimpse of him ducking into the counselor’s office at the start of lunch, which made me relax a little. Maybe he was telling her about the letter? Maybe they were calling the police right now?
I spent most of lunch in the library, redoing my calculus homework that was due next period. I kept glancing up, waiting to see Oliver standing in front of me, but he never appeared. I dashed through the problems, not even checking to see if they were right, and as soon as I was done, I went to where Oliver, Caro, Drew, and I had all eaten lunch the day before. (Had that really just been the day before? It seemed like a lifetime ago.) “Sorry!” Caro yelled when she saw me, and I froze. “The burrito queen is out of stock today! You’ve exhausted her benevolence!”
Drew just rolled his eyes. “Today is DIY day, apparently,” he said to me. “Hope you brought something. Because otherwise, it’s a giant bag of Funyuns for you. Which, despite the clever name, are never fun.” He looked pleased with himself for realizing this.
“Where’s Oliver?” I asked, and there must have been something in my voice because Caro and Drew seemed to sober up fast.
“Um, I don’t . . .” Caro looked around like he was hiding behind her, ready to pop out and yell, “Surprise!” “I haven’t really seen him, but I don’t see that much, anyway.”
“Yeah, same,” Drew said. “You okay? You look a little . . .” He grimaced, which was apparently the universal facial symbol for “stressed and terrified.”
“Yeah, I. I, um, I have to find him,” I said, backing away from their lunch. The bell suddenly rang, shrill and impatient, and I jumped. “I have to go.”
“Wait, Emmy,” Caro said. “You have class, Em, you can’t—”
But for the first time in my life, I didn’t care if I got caught ditching. Oliver wasn’t on campus. I knew it. I just knew it. I knew it the same way I knew he was gone when he didn’t show up that Tuesday for school ten years ago. Even back then, something hadn’t been right and that rock in my stomach was settling back into its old, familiar spot once again.
I did a quick loop of the campus, then went past his locker and scanned the library, just in case I had missed him. But he wasn’t anywhere and it felt like my dream from the night before was suddenly becoming a horrible reality. Oliver was gone and I couldn’t find him.
But this time was different. This time, I knew where he was.
I ran to my car, my hands shaking so hard that my keys jingled together. The parking lot was packed with people returning from lunch, so no one noticed when I pulled out and sped down the street. I wanted to call my mom, but I was scared that she would freak out. I wanted to call Maureen, but I didn’t have her number. And I wanted to call the police, but I was scared that Oliver would somehow be in trouble, that he’d be charged with helping his dad. I didn’t know what the rules were, or if his dad was even waiting for him.
So I got into my car and went to find Oliver.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The restaurant was half empty when I drove past it. Apparently, my mom wasn’t the only person who hadn’t liked their fries. At first, I had been afraid that I wouldn’t remember how to get there, but then familiar markers—the gas station on the corner, the dollar store, the psychic who only charges twenty-five dollars to lie to you—started to pop up, and when I pulled into the parking lot, I saw Oliver and his dad sitting across from each other in a booth.
The rock in my stomach shifted again and I thought I might throw up. I couldn’t really see his dad but I could see Oliver, who was fiddling with a coffee mug. I had never seen him drink coffee before.
I parked, then got out and walked to the restaurant on wobbly legs. I had no idea what I was doing, but now that I had seen Oliver, I wasn’t going to leave. I wondered if, somehow, that’s how Maureen had felt when he came home, that once he was back in your sight, it was such sweet relief that you’d do anything to keep him there.
I walked past the hostess and went toward the booth. Now all of me felt wobbly and when I got close, I realized that the man he was sitting with was, in fact, Oliver’s dad. He just looked so much older than I remembered him. My memories were of a tall man with thick, dark hair and sharp eyes, just like Oliver’s. But this man was gray, with a thinning hairline, and when he glanced at me, his eyes were just tired and sad.
Oliver turned to see what his dad was looking at, and I stood there dumbly, staring at both of them. “Emmy,” Oliver said, but he didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have to.
The realization quickly dawned on Oliver’s dad—on Keith—that I was the little girl from next door. “Oh my God,” he exhaled. “Emmy. Oh my goodness, you’re so . . . grown up.” He smiled nervously and glanced at Oliver. “The two of you are so grown up.”
“It’s okay,” Oliver said to me. “Come sit down, it’s all right. It’s fine.” He patted the booth seat and I slid in warily next to him, then reached for his hand and grabbed on so tight that he winced.
“You’ve grown up to be so beautiful,” Keith said, and I just stared at him. For ten years, he had been the bad guy, the literal monster that takes children away from their homes, and now sitting across from him, he looked so normal, so average, like any older guy wearing khakis and a polo shirt with a wrinkled, slightly frayed collar.