Page 13 of The Lucky One

“Yeah, it’s good,” I said in English, feeling put on the spot. “Um, how are you?”

“Oh, you know, not living my best life like you, but it works.”

“Yeah...”

I regretted making the call. Apparently he had no idea what was going on with me. A part of me was grateful that Mama hadn’t told him, but another part tensed as if I had traveled back to the depths of winter. Did she keep it from him because she didn’t want him to know how much I’d screwed up?

“Henry and Paul are great people, not at all like I imagined them,” Richard said. “They even knew a little history when I quizzed them. Well, at least about the last century. Not that I expected more. But why am I saying this? You must know what I’m talking about by now.” He laughed.

My fingers clenched into fists. “You have the wrong picture of Americans.”

“I worked in America for years, Emily. I think I have a better idea than you do after a few months.”

No matter what, Richard knew better. I was stupid in his eyes, incapable of doing anything right.

I wanted to retort that he didn’t know everything, that I’d stay here and never go back to Germany because he made me not want to go back. But all that came out was a little gasp. He still held power over me, and I hated it.

“I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’ll let Susanne know you called.”

“Thanks.” I hung up.

Now my anxiety had doubled. I chewed on my lip, thinking back to what Paul had told me about his trip to Germany. He’d enjoyed his time with Mama, Lucas and his girlfriend Kelly, but he had never mentioned Richard—and I hadn’t dared to ask.

I reached into my pocket and retrieved the emergency pack of squares that Natalia had given me. Checking first that I wouldn’t be setting a bad example for any kids playing nearby, I lit up. I hated smoking but at that moment, I couldn’t help it. I had to acknowledge the truth that I wasn’t all stars and light. There was no denying it: escaping to America, I had left my mother on her own.

That’s why that poem of Jon’s was my favorite. For the first time in my life, I felt seen for who I was. I wasn’t pigeonholed into some idealized person everyone expected me to be. Jon saw my imperfections, and they made him like me even more.

The front door opened across the street. Tim had caught me in the act.

“Ah-ah-ah, Little German,” he called, wagging his finger at me.

“I’m nervous, okay?” I crushed out the cigarette, crossed the street and walked up the driveway to the door.

“I know I sound like a super lame dad, but smoking is bad, you know?”

“I know...” I sighed. “I’m planning on quitting.”

Tim opened his arms and I willingly stepped over the threshold into his embrace. Back in Germany I had two so-called “fathers,” but after only a few months in America I’d found two dads who made me feel more comfortable. Tim and I had started spending time together during Jon’s absence. I would come over for dinner and we’d cook together, and he let me visit Jon’s room whenever I wanted. Sometimes we would talk about him. Regardless of his recent mistakes, Tim still saw him as his little boy.

“Well, I’m going to go pick up Jon,” Tim said. “You’ll wait in the basement like we agreed?”

“Yep. Don’t forget, I’ve ‘gone back to Germany.’”

“Ahh, can’t we hide a camera somewhere? His reaction would make a great Christmas card.”

We shared a laugh at our mischievous plan, but my chest suddenly tightened. What if Jon was actually relieved to hear that I was gone? I couldn’t predict his reactions anymore.

“All right. Shouldn’t take longer than thirty minutes. I know he’s going to be excited to see you.” He winked and stepped out the door, shutting it behind him.

“Okay,” I whispered into the dark hallway. Everyone had their own opinions, but ultimately it was Jon’s that mattered.

I made my way down to Jon’s room and collapsed on one of his many couches. Normally time flew by in here... but now, time stood still. The punching bag hung motionless from its hook. Dim light filtered through the windows. Everything was put away neatly, unlike when Jon was here. What if I never got to see his mess again?

I jumped up and searched for ways to occupy myself. Stared at myself in the mirror about twenty times. Adjusted my hair thirty. Fiddled with the hem of his sweatshirt forty.

Paced the room at least fifty times when I finally heard voices drifting in through the open basement door.

“I have to see her!”