I can’t remember who stopped writing first. Actually, that’s a lie. I know it was you. Because you stopped, I stopped writing too. But I haven’t stopped thinking about you. Never. I see a sweater that’s a certain color, or I notice a piece of ribbon tied around a tree, or I catch the smell of a leaf fire or the right kind of perfume and it’s like you’re right next to me, and we’re thirteen again. Last night, I dreamed about you. Maybe it’s a sign that I’m supposed to give being a not-very-good pen pal another try.

Anyway. 

In the dream, we were in your old kitchen—your mom’s old kitchen—and we were baking Mystery Cookies like we used to do, just tossing in whatever we found in the cupboards. I remember the dream cookies were going to be coconut-butterfly flavor because you said butterflies were high in iron. But the cookies wouldn’t bake, no matter how hot I turned the oven, and when I turned around to ask you what we should do, you were gone.

I looked for you everywhere. I ran through the whole house, checking every room, pounding up and down the stairs, but my legs were moving slower and slower. You know how it is when you’re running in dreams, and the air is like hardening cement. Then I stopped and looked out the window, and I could see your whole empty backyard, and the woods waiting there, and I knew. I knew you were gone. I tried to scream for you to get out, come back, don’t go in there, but I couldn’t make a sound.

Maybe that’s what this letter is.

I hadn’t thought about Mystery Cookies in forever. Remember our Potion Project? The Three Choices game? Someday House? The tricks we’d play? Jesus, picturing Jemma Howard stumbling through the woods behind your place in her skintight pink prom dress, bawling, still cracks me up. Even if it shouldn’t. 
And they were always your ideas. 

It was all you.

Maybe you heard that I had a baby. Well—he’s not a baby anymore. He’s five. Having a kid is like speeding up time. Most days, when I wake up, I think I’m going to find my dad downstairs and my mom yelling that the school bus is already coming down the road and you in our usual seat at the back, waiting for me. And then I remember that I’m a grownup, and my dad is gone, and I live miles away from that road, and I’ve never gone back, not in twenty years, and the only things I have to be afraid of now are little things like bills and the flu and losing my job. And, of course, all the things that might hurt Jake. But I suppose every mother is afraid of those.

Anyway. 

Jake’s father and I were engaged, but we never actually went through with it. Then he moved away, so it’s just me and Jake now. And it’s good. I never thought being a mom was something I wanted, probably because I never thought about being a grownup at all. But the second he showed up, it was like the whole world turned over. It was a fresh start. Everything clean.  

He has this game he plays, where every single stuffed animal he owns has to get offered a bite of food at dinnertime, or Jake says they’ll get angry. He has an imagination like yours. I love that and I hate it at the same time. I don’t want it to take him where it took us. 

Things we did. Because we thought he liked it. Because you said he demanded it.

Even back then, way in the back of my mind, I think I knew it was all pretty messed up. 

But I didn’t wonder until much later, after we’d moved away, after I was done with high school and working a real job, where you’d gotten the idea for the Gray Man in the first place. 

Then I couldn’t stop wondering.

I should finally admit it. I was never sure if you believed in him. Or if I believed in him. Or if we were both just pretending, and the second one of us stopped, then the other one would be left with him alone.

I don’t know.

I’m not making excuses. Honestly. The last stuff—the horrible stuff—it shouldn’t have gotten there. It should never have gotten there. But we were kids. We didn’t understand.

Someone should have been watching us. 

Jake’s really into sidewalk chalk these days. He makes these giant artworks that fill the driveway, and they’re kind of like comic strips, like they show the passage of time starting at the garage door and ending at the street with a whole little story in between. My favorite so far was the one about a bear who ate spaghetti until he was the size of a house. Jake still thinks eating more just makes you bigger in general. He’ll learn the cruel truth when he’s thirty-two and his metabolism slows down. 

I hope this letter gets to you. I had to call your mom for your current address. She didn’t seem that surprised to hear from me. Or maybe she just doesn’t get surprised by anything. It sounded like she wasn’t sure if you were still in Philadelphia, or if you’d gone back to Albany or what. You know what’s extra crazy? I still remember your old phone number. I didn’t even have to look it up. 

If you want to write back, now you know where to find me. It would be good to know that you’re all right after this much time. I think we’re both free now. Maybe we both get fresh starts.  
 
Take care, 
Marley