Everyone We've Been (37 page)

“Nice, Caleb,” I say.

We both laugh and I like this. I've missed this. The sound of us getting along, sharing a conversation we both understand.

“Caleb,” I say. “Tell me about Rory. One thing you remember about him.”

Caleb has to think about it for a while, and then he leans back and says, “Well, little-known fact, but Rory was kind of a klepto.”

I guffaw. “What?”

“It's true. One time—Rory was about six months—we were driving with Mom and she'd stopped at Gas Fill. While she filled up, we three went into the convenience store to get some grub. I was pushing him in his little carriage, and we were walking around, arguing over which type of beef jerky to get. And then we paid and were leaving when the old man behind the counter started yelling at us to come back. Rory had a pack of gum in his carriage.”

“You think he grabbed it?” I ask.

“You swore you didn't and I swore I didn't. I mean, maybe it got knocked off the shelf and into the carriage.”

“Or Rory was a klepto,” I say, laughing.

“Exactly.” Caleb grins, remembering. I feel a pinch, wishing I remembered, too, but I'm happy to have this. To have a picture in my mind. “The guy didn't believe us and kept us in there, yelling at us, till Mom came and paid for it and explained that it must just have been a misunderstanding.”

I don't know whether the cloudiness in my eyes is from laughing or crying now.

“Another thing was that Rory hated your music, your practicing, a little less than the rest of us.” Caleb says this softly, like he knows that it will mean a lot to me. “He had this bouncing, body-wriggling dance.” I giggle at Caleb's attempt to demonstrate by bopping on his computer chair. “We could play all kinds of music and he'd wiggle his toes. Country, rap, electro—he was no snob. He'd nod or clap or flap his wrists.”

Caleb is smiling, and I wonder if he's been waiting for this, waiting for the time when we could talk about our little brother together. Miss him, remember him.

R
for remember.

“But when you played, that kid got down. He loved it. He loved you.”

I am doing both now—laughing and crying.

The difference is not clear.

It's not important.

When I head back into my room after talking to Caleb, I feel lighter and heavier. I feel sad, but certain that I made the right choice yesterday in the clinic.

How could I have ever thought forgetting was the way to move forward?

How could I have done it without hesitating?

I am packing all the Zach things back into the box—all the memories I have, will ever have, of him. I'm folding up the clothes I wore to erase him when I see a four-petaled flower drawn in blue pen on the jeans. I frown because I never draw on my jeans.

When did I do that?

Then, for a reason I can't explain—I guess just to double-check that they really are mine—I turn the waist part inside out to check the tag. Yep, my jeans.

And then a line of blue pen again catches my eye. And I see that there's writing down the thigh of my jeans.

I turn them completely inside out and hold my breath as I read, in my own writing,
Your name is Addison Sullivan.

My breath shudders, but I stay calm and read it again.
I wrote this. Before Zach was removed from my mind.
I feel so light-headed that I can barely breathe.

Your name is Addison Sullivan and you are sixteen, but you will remember that. What you won't remember is Zach, the boy who broke your heart.

I did remember, I want to tell this past version of myself. In a way, I remembered. I force myself to think of Memory Zach. His smile, his hair, the night I met him on the bus, but I can't make him appear.

He's gone.

The sadness stings, but I think I'd rather have a fragment of the real truth than an illusion of it, a hint of it that isn't the same as the real thing.

I think of what Katy said in my car a couple of days ago:
There will be other boys, okay?
Other Zachs. And I know she's right.

When I start reading again, I say the words out loud, claiming them for myself. I've been told and given a lot of details and information from people over the past few days, but this time, I tell myself my own story, my own facts.

I don't know where or who I heard it from that when something happens to you, whether it's the best or worst thing that's ever happened to you, you can tell the story any way you want.

The point is that it's yours.

Your name is Addison Sullivan and you are sixteen, but you will remember that. What you won't remember is Zach, the boy who broke your heart. You don't want to remember it today, but maybe someday you will.

So find him and make him tell you.

It matters. Who you were, who he was, who you were with him, and who you were after.

Or maybe don't find him—it's your choice.

Find everything that comes after.

There will be so much that comes after.

But open your eyes.

This book would not exist without my agent, Suzie Townsend, who has been a tireless champion of my work.
Everyone We've Been
started as a messy, ill-conceived
thing,
and you knew exactly what to do with it. To my editor, Julia Maguire, working with you has been a joy. Thank you for caring about Addie and Zach's story. To my sisters and my parents, I am forever grateful for your love and unwavering support. Thank you also to Ray Shappell for a one-in-a-million cover, and to Heather Kelly, Artie Bennett, and Dawn Ryan as well as everyone at Random House and Knopf. A million thanks to all of Team New Leaf, particularly to Kathleen Ortiz and Sara Stricker, the GIF Queen. Infinite hugs to my writer friends, especially Mariah Irvin, who read one of the earliest drafts of this book and didn't run off screaming. Last but not least, thank you to my colleagues, friends, and family, who have seen me through these last few years. You have made all the difference.