Greg put his forehead down on the steering wheel.
On the dashboard, Frank’s voice said gently, “Greg. What do you want to do right now?”
I looked down at the bottle in my lap. I thought about the shoebox. Twenty-three letters. I’m not okay right now. I’m going to stop writing until I am. I thought about the four years I’d spent deciding for my son what he could handle. I thought about Coach Dawson. Someone else’s dream.
I thought about what I wanted Sam to see, right now, in this parking lot. Not what I wanted to protect him from. What I wanted him to see.
“Greg,” I said. “Look at me.”
He lifted his head.
“You didn’t open it,” I said. “Two days. You didn’t open it. You called Frank. You sat here for two hours and you didn’t open it.” My voice was shaking now. “I’ve known you since I was nineteen. I’ve never once seen you not open it.”
