Now I know why he stopped writing three months ago.
I should never have let it go as long as I did. It was completely selfish to sit there and wait for him to come around and write me back—assuming his issue was small and insignificant—and that protecting the status quo of our relationship was more important.
Of course he wouldn’t have stopped writing for anything trivial. He’d been committed to me for seven years. Why did I think he’d be so cavalier about dropping me all of a sudden?
And now I know why he’s been hiding out here, away from his dad, too. It all makes sense.
Almost.
Walking into the park, I feel the cool breeze from the downpour yesterday brush my arms. The air is thick and weighted, and the clouds overhead threaten more of the same. I hug myself against the slight chill.
Looking around, I walk past the rides and old gaming booths, spotting the field house ahead. I enter and make my way down the dark stairwell, instantly seeing a light down the corridor.
This place freaks me out. I’d heard some people from Thunder Bay were buying the property and had plans to tear down the old theme park and turn it into a hotel with a golf course and a marina and all that, but it might’ve been just a rumor.
I’d be sad to see the place go, but yeah… I turn corners half-expecting to see death clowns cackling among the decay.
Too many horror movies, I guess.
Misha’s room is lit up, and I see the lamp on the bedside table turned on as well as some candles on another table across the room. He’s lying back on the bed, his feet on the floor and his ears covered with headphones as he taps his thigh with a pencil.
There are a few boxes that look filled with his belongings sitting next to the door, but other than the bed, table, and lamp, everything else is packed away.
I smile softly, unable to tear my eyes away from him. The way his foot is tapping to the beat that I hear playing out of his headphones, the way the ring in his lip makes his mouth look like something to eat, and his dark brown hair—damn near black—wispy like he was just outside in the wind.
My heart aches, my stomach somersaults, and my lungs fill with air that sends a shiver down my spine.
I love him.
Stepping over, I climb on top of him, straddling his waist and planting my hands on either side of his head. He jerks and opens his eyes, his gaze turning gentle and happy when he sees me.
He pulls off his headphones. “Are you okay?”
I know he was probably concerned about leaving me at school around Trey and Lyla without him. I nod.
I’m tempted to tell him about my day. Trey’s threats, Manny in the bathroom, J.D. and Ten at lunch. But no more distractions.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Annie?” I ask him.
His expression turns somber, and he slowly sits up. I move off him, sliding onto the bed and sitting at his side.
“I would’ve,” he says, avoiding my eyes as he turns off his iPod. “I was just waiting for us to calm down.”
I can understand that, but I’m not talking about when he came here as Masen. I’m talking about in his letters.
“I heard about it and saw the name online,” I tell him, “but…why did you tell me your last name was Lare?”
When I heard about the seventeen-year-old girl who died on Old Pointe Road from a heart attack, I’d read her name was Anastasia Grayson.
Annie, I gather, is short for Anastasia, but Misha never told me his real last name?
“Lare is my middle name,” he replies. “A family name. Everyone in Thunder Bay knows the Graysons, and my grandfather is important. There’s always been pressure to be and act a certain way. It was so aggravating as a kid, and when I started writing you, I saw it as an opportunity to kind of be free. Not really thinking that a kid our age probably wouldn’t know who Senator Grayson was anyway.” He gives a weak laugh. “I legally changed it to Lare when I turned eighteen, though. It suits me a lot better.”
So I guess I wasn’t the only one pretending to be someone else.
“She was an honor student,” he explains, “an athlete, and she was always picture perfect. I wondered how she did it—how she found the time and energy to be everything she was—but it wasn’t until too late that I realized what she was doing to her body. There were signals and we missed it. Taking money out of my wallet, the hours she kept, the decreased appetite…”
I’d read the details when the police finally released her name all those months ago. She was jogging, it was late, and she was alone. Her car was dead, so they guessed she was trying to run to a gas station or something.
She’d collapsed with her phone in her hand, and by the time help got to her, she was gone. It was later determined she’d been abusing drugs for quite some time.
I didn’t follow the story and wasn’t very invested at the time. She was just a girl I didn’t know. But I’d heard enough to know the details, and I want to cringe, thinking back to the times I thought about it, not realizing who she was.
Misha’s sister.
“It was the night we met at the scavenger hunt,” I say, remembering the date in the news article.
He nods absently, still staring off. “You and I were inside talking, and she was…”
Dying. I look away.
“I couldn’t stomach anything after that,” he explains. “I stopped writing, because I couldn’t talk about it, but I couldn’t talk about anything else, either. I couldn’t carry on like before, and I couldn’t face the reality of her being gone. I felt sick.” He finally looks over at me. “I needed you, but I just didn’t know how to talk to you anymore. Or anyone. I’d changed.”