I told Culler to pick me up at Fuller’s.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me that I’d ask him to do that.

But before that moment where Milo watches me get into a grimy-looking station wagon with Culler Evans, I have to get ready for that moment and I tear apart my closet looking for something nice to wear before I realize I’m trying to turn collecting the last vestiges of my dead father’s post-career-career into a fake date just to provoke Milo into … I don’t know.

I change into jeans and a tank top.

Mom and Beth are in the backyard. Beth wants to make sure she and Mom get fifteen minutes of sun a day, because that’s healthy. She wanted to go to the park and have a picnic, but she still hasn’t managed to get Mom out of her housecoat, so they’re out in the backyard, in lawn chairs instead. A compromise.

I don’t think Mom knows what I’m doing today, which is how it has to be, but I can’t leave without telling them I’m going somewhere.

When I reach the backyard, Mom and Beth are sun-soaking statues. They’re wearing sunglasses and hats, which I think must defeat the purpose, but they’re still and their faces are pointed up. It’s very quiet. Mom almost looks normal, if I ignore the fact that the corners of her mouth are pulled down. I clear my throat. They both turn their faces to me.

I’m the sun.

“I’m going out for a while,” I say. “With Milo. I might not be back until later tonight.”

“Where—” Beth starts, but I give her a pointed look and she gets it. “Oh.”

“That’s too bad,” Mom says, and my stomach twists. Her voice is always a shock to me. Sometimes I think I forget it, even though I know I must hear it more than I think I do. “I was going to ask you to join us out here…”

Sometimes I have dreams about my mom holding me. It’s really dumb and I wake up so angry because I don’t dream about my dad and I want to.

“Maybe some other time,” I say, and Beth gives Mom a knowing look like, teenagers. I hate her so much sometimes—I’m so full of it—that I’m amazed my brain can send any other kinds of messages to my body, like move, like walk away. Like breathe.

“Have a good time with Milo,” Mom says.

I nod and then I walk around the side of the house and make my way to Fuller’s and by the time I get there, I feel a little sick about it. I don’t think I want to do this to Milo.

I mean, I do.

But I don’t.

So I sit on the curb a little ways away. Far enough away not to get hit by people who need to fill their tanks and close enough that I won’t have to run a mile to reach Culler’s car when he finally pulls up. I check my watch. I’m a little early. I rest my chin in my hands.

He should be here soon.

“Eddie?”

I look up at my name. Missy stands over me. I didn’t even hear her come up. She seems big from this angle. Really curvy. It’s crazy. It’s not fair she’s this curvy and I’m totally flat. I glance down the road. I hope Culler doesn’t come while she’s still out here.

“Hi, Missy,” I say.

“What are you sitting out here for? Are you going to see Milo?”

“Nope.”

She bends down so we’re eye level.

“Why? That’s where I’m headed. Come with me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve got plans.”

“With who?”

“Doesn’t matter. They’re my plans, not yours.” That was unnecessarily bitchy, despite the part of me that enjoyed it. I turn to her and try to look as earnest as possible. “I’m in a fight with Milo, so it’s probably best if I keep my distance right now. Go without me.”

“What did you fight about?” She sounds genuinely surprised.

“It’s between me and Milo.” I force a smile at her. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not a big deal. Just go, Missy.”

“Okay,” she says uncertainly. She straightens and makes her way to Fuller’s. Her heels are clacking against the pavement as she goes. That’s ridiculous. I stare at the tennis shoes on my feet. Who wears heels when they don’t have to? And then the clacking stops and she turns back to me. “It’s too bad, though. I like it when you hang around with us.”

When I hang around with them.

I wave my hand and say really loudly, “Bye, Missy!”

She goes. Finally. About ten more minutes pass. When I spot the station wagon making its way up the street, I hear my name again.

“Hey, Eddie!” I get to my feet. Milo is standing outside Fuller’s. Half-outside, half-inside. He’s holding the door open. “Eddie! Hey!”

“What do you want?” I call to him. The station wagon pulls up beside me. I wipe my suddenly sweaty palms on my jeans.

“We’re in a fight?”

“Yeah.”

“Good to know,” he calls. I round the station wagon and open the door. Milo frowns. “Who’s that?”

I wave at him and I get in the car. My heart is beating fast. I turn to Culler and I smile at him, but that feels instantly weird. This is not a happy trip. But Culler smiles back at me. He has nice teeth. Today he is wearing a black T-shirt. Black jeans. Ray-Bans.

I wish I could see his eyes.

“Fuck me,” I say suddenly, and his smile vanishes and my face turns red. “I mean—I forgot the studio key. I have to give it back. Maggie asked.”

“It’s okay,” Culler says, pulling away from the curb. “I have a key.” He glances at me. “Your dad made me a copy. We’ll leave it for them and you can keep his. You shouldn’t have to give something like that up.”

I don’t know what to say. It’s such a nice thing for him to offer. But horrible. It never occurred to me to want to keep my father’s key, but now it seems like the most obvious thing in the world. It meant something to him; it should mean something to me.

“Thank you for driving me down,” I say.

“Thank you for letting me drive you,” he says. “Thought the last time I’d see that studio was the week before he died. I wouldn’t have felt right going in there with him gone.”

With him gone. These are sad words.

“You worked in the studio?” I ask.

“I watched him work in the studio. I would bring my stuff down to show him. My darkroom is digital. It’s all set up at my place—”

“Where do you live in Haverfield?” I interrupt. “Do you live alone?”

Culler laughs.

“You don’t know anything about me, do you?”

I blush. “Sorry—”

“It’s okay.”

But it’s not okay. I can’t reconcile this gap in knowledge. That there is someone out there who maybe misses my dad as much as I do, and I never heard about him. Or maybe I did and I just didn’t pay attention. Dad, mentioning some student—the first student he’d ever taken on—at some point, and Culler’s name going over me, because it wasn’t important because it didn’t affect all the stupid little things I was doing every day.

And now, here he is. Culler Evans. I don’t know anything about Culler Evans.

And Culler Evans makes me realize how little I know about my father.

“I should’ve asked him.” I can’t breathe around the idea that there are all these things I don’t know and I never thought to ask, will never get to ask. Who do I get those missing pieces from and will they ever be as good, or as whole, if they come from someone who isn’t him? “How he felt about his photography and everything—why didn’t I…”

“Don’t sweat it,” Culler says. “That’s how kids are with their parents. It’s natural. My dad’s a surgeon and that’s about all I can tell you. The man’s saved people’s lives. I think he’s in a book about something he did.…” Culler laughs. “I just proved my point, didn’t I? It’s like what I said to you—you’ll never understand the scope of your dad’s career because he’s your dad.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

Culler pauses. “Don’t let it get you down. I know just about everything you don’t and I worked with him. I’m just as … lost about this whole thing as you are.”

I feel so bad for that, a total jerk, but I don’t know what to say to make it better. At first I want to tell him that maybe between the two of us, we’ll come up with something, but that almost seems too forward and I’m not sure I believe it.

Instead, I ask, “How did you end up becoming his student?”

“I e-mailed him, believe it or not.”

“How did you get his e-mail address?”

He smiles. “I’m not telling you or you’ll think I’m a stalker.”

“How about a determined fan?”

“I’ll take that. I live in this apartment in Haverfield,” Culler says. Haverfield is halfway between Branford and Delaney. “And your dad was my idol. His work was incredible. The way he arrived on the scene—he just wanted to share his art. That was it. And he did. And then the way he left, when he started feeling compromised, he just cut through the bullshit and went.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“And it drove me crazy that he was close, so I got his e-mail and I e-mailed him and I told him he was the reason I wanted to be a photographer. I offered to assist him for free if I could learn from him. I have an online portfolio, so he checked it out. He said he liked my artist’s statement and agreed to take me on as a student.”

“What’s your artist’s statement?” I ask. “Where do you go to school?”

Culler laughs. I like the sound of it.

I like that he can laugh despite where we’re going and what we’ll do when we get there.

“I don’t go to school for this. I don’t care about school. I care about art, about sharing it. Art is to be shared … that’s my objective. Sounds familiar, I know.”

“Vaguely,” I say.

“That’s why all my work goes online. He said I reminded him of him, except more uncompromising. He said it was good I figured out how to put myself out there on my own terms. He’d never be able to do that, because of his legacy.”

My stomach twists. “You think that’s why—”

“No,” Culler interrupts. He takes off his glasses and sets them on the dash. He glances at me and I like his eyes. I like his eyes when they’re looking at me. “Eddie, if I can promise you anything, I promise you, he loved his work.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Anyway, he called me a raw talent—an intuitive photographer, which is a nice way of saying I’m completely ignorant about the technical aspects of photography, but a good photo is a good photo, right? He’d let me observe him at work and gave me advice on how to get the photos I wanted to shoot out of my head. It was kind of informal, but it was absolutely incredible … he made me believe I could do this for real and until I met him I wasn’t always sure.” He pauses and clears his throat. “But now I’m sure. That’s what I mean when I say your dad changed my life.”

“I’m glad you met,” I say honestly.

“Me too. I love the way he told stories. Plastered them all over city walls just to get them out there,” he says. “And that’s what I want to do, at any cost. I want to share my stories. He respected that. It’s about putting what’s inside of you out there.” Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but he almost looks like he could cry and that makes my throat tight. “I haven’t, though, since he died.”

“How come?” I ask.

“Nothing seems important enough anymore.” He reaches for his glasses and puts them back on. “Now I just want to know why. I need to know why.”

The way to Delaney is mostly fields and farms, horses, cows, guinea hens, until it is suddenly, miraculously, a city that is not really much more special than a town like Branford, except it has a mall, and every fast-food chain you could ever want to eat at. And a studio, where four artists gather—no, three …

“Me too,” I tell him. “More than anything.”

There’s nothing else until I know why.