Zander asks me. At his question, I glance over from where we both have our heads back on the pillows of his bed. The cardboard and walnut boxes sit between us, and I take in his profile as I consider the answer. His straight nose, his strong jaw, the fan of dark lashes against his tanned skin—he’s biding time, taking a moment before delving into the unknown. And I’m not sure why he fears it other than the fact that it is something unknown to him. But I can’t imagine it will hold anything other than parts of his past that he can piece together and then put it all behind him. Then again, I know better than anyone how your past can own you even in the present. Steal your hope. Taint your soul. Change your outlook, your expectations. And even after you break free from its clutches, it’s still there. In the crevices of your mind. In your reactions to everyday things. In the smile you show to the world while you cry inside.
