“You told me,” my mother says, gripping my hand. “I’m glad you did, because I think you needed that, but that situation is already complicated enough for her. Knowing you and Will broke up only makes it more complicated. May just make it harder, and right now she feels you are the only one in the world close to understanding her pain.”
I think of our conversations over the last year. Not many, but each one, a release, a relief for us both.
“Don’t take that away from her with information that makes no difference,” Mama says. “That does no good. It might make you feel better, but it does nothing for her, and she’s your first concern now. That note was to you and you alone. Private. I just want her to be able to move on and accept your comfort. It wasn’t your fault. She’ll know that, but knowing this would only raise more questions, and she already has enough of those.”
I’m playing Mama’s words in my head when I pull up to Mrs. Hattfield’s. I park my father’s Tahoe in the driveway, noting the dying rose bush in front of the house. The grass is longer than the last time I was here, even though it’s winter. Her house, always neat and perfectly kept, appears slightly disheveled. I ring the doorbell, waiting. When there is no answer after a few moments, I walk over to the garage, peering in and finding the Cadillac Will used to tease his mother about.
“Are you a pimp, Ma?” he’d ask laughingly. “Rolling around in your Cadillac.”
I mouth the words, smiling at the image of Will seated in the living room just beyond the doors of this house. One year we helped Mrs. Hattfield trim her tree. Will roasted marshmallows in the fireplace. His mother and I had hot chocolate, and Will had cider. My life with him rushes back to me in vivid detail; the colors, the scents, the touches, the laughs, the tears, the good and the bad. All of it inundates my mind and blurs my vision.
And I miss him.
Not all the hurt we caused each other at the end. I miss the boy I met at a public library, who crushed on me for years without letting me know. Who took me trick or treating with his twelve-year-old cousin for our first date. I laughed with my friends about it, but we all thought it was sweet.
“God, Will.” I shake my head, blinking at the tears freezing before they fall. I turn to leave, my steps dragging toward Dad’s SUV.
“Avery?”
I turn at the sound of my name, and Mrs. Hattfield stands at the front door, her chin wobbling and her face already streaked with tears. I run, avoiding little patches of ice, needing to get to her. As soon as I’m close, her arms stretch out and she pulls me into her. Her sobs vibrate into my chest.
“I miss him.” Mrs. Hattfield weeps unashamedly, her head buried in the collar of my coat. “I miss him so much.”
“I know,” I whisper, my pain communing with hers. “So do I.”
And it doesn’t matter if I was wearing his ring. If we were lovers or friends at the end. If he cheated or how we injured each other. All that matters is that I loved him, and so did she. That besides the woman I’m holding, I was closer to him than anyone else on the planet. She and I knew his strengths and his weaknesses like no one else ever did, and can console one another uniquely.
We stand like that for I’m not sure how long. Long enough for the winter cold to bite through my gloves and whip beneath my coat. I pull back and look through the open front door. It’s dark in there. No sign of life. No savory smells of food cooking or the pine scent of a live Christmas tree.
“Get your coat, Mrs. H,” I command gently. “You’re coming home with me.”
I didn’t get to tell my mom I was bringing someone home for Christmas dinner, but when I arrive, Mrs. Hattfield in tow, she doesn’t look surprised and already has an extra plate at the table.
“How’d you know?” I ask her quietly while we set out side dishes.
“I know you.” She smiles, pride in her eyes that has nothing to do with anything I’ve achieved or a goal I’ve crushed. She’s proud of me for who I am, not for what I’ve done. Mrs. Hattfield and I share a tearful smile at dinner before we say grace. Still sorting through the tangle of guilt and shame and pain and fury, I hope one day soon I’ll know me, too.
14
Decker
“I’m stuffed.”
My daughter flops onto the couch beside me in our hotel suite, curly golden hair fanning around her and onto my shoulder.
“Your eyes were bigger than your stomach,” I reply, brushing the hair back from her face.
“Grams always says that.” Kiera’s eyes, the exact color and shape of mine, laugh at me from her mother’s face.
“Sure does.” I nod and sink deeper into the cushions.
“I wish we’d gone there for Christmas like we were supposed to,” she says softly. “To Atlanta to see Grams.”
My teeth clamp around the caustic response that springs to my lips. Tara, my ex, used some trumped up excuse about a cheerleading camp Kiera is supposed to attend to make things hard for me. I suspect Kiera doesn’t even care about the camp, but she loves her mother.
As she should.
I used to love her mother, too.