I told her everything on the car ride to the airport last night. She was livid, almost running us off the road, and she nearly turned us around to go back to the house so she could deal with my uncle. I had to beg her to reconsider. I cried the whole plane ride to L.A.
I didn’t mean to spill everything, but I needed perspective. I needed a new friend, I guess.
“They’re my family,” I say, my voice gentle. “We were forced together and shit happened.”
I was there. Not her.
My only wrong-step was falling in love with one of them.
She looks like she wants to say more, but eventually, she nods, letting it go for now. “Carter is walking the grounds,” she says, slipping her heels back on. “I’ll be back later with some clothes.”
“I’m fine,” I assure her.
Security is here. I don’t need a sleepover.
But she looks at me level. “Just let me care about you, okay?”
Something in her voice shuts me up, like she’s done being nice and done asking.
Kind of like Jake. I give her a small smile.
She hugs me, and I close my eyes, squeezing my arms around her.
She says goodbye and leaves, and I prop up my elbows on the counter, staring at the will.
But the silver case to my left out of the corner of my eye is all I can really see.
I look over at the urn that looks like a large jewelry box, sterling silver with ornate etchings. Mirai has been keeping it until she brought it to me tonight. Just one urn for them both.
My parents wanted to be buried at the tree with the swing in the yard, clearly never questioning that I would stay here or ever sell this house.
I bury my face in my hands, letting out a groan. This ache, like something is burrowing into my stomach, and I know my eyes are puffy, even if I haven’t looked in a mirror since yesterday morning when I envisioned myself pregnant with Kaleb’s baby.
God, yesterday morning. How can so much have changed in one day?
Sliding off the stool, I stick my hands in the pocket of my hoodie and drift around the house, taking in how much has changed. Everything is still in its place, nothing really different. Except for the way I’m seeing it.
The fireplace was for show, only turned on for parties or holiday pictures, and it runs on gas. No need for firewood, no crackles of the logs or smell of burning bark.
Every few years, rooms were redecorated, furniture that had barely been used replaced with a new style. At no time did I ever veg out on the couch to watch TV or make popcorn for a movie night.
The boys would tear this place up in no time. I shake my head, picturing a deer head over the mantel.
I drift upstairs and stop at the top of the landing, ready to veer left for my room, but I pause, staring right. My parents’ bedroom door sits closed, and I head over, gripping the handle.
The cool brass seeps down to my bones, and I can still hear her voice behind the door. The glass she’s drinking from clanking against the marble tops of the tables inside and the pills in my father’s bottle jiggling as he tries to gear up for his stressful days.
I should’ve talked.
Screamed, yelled, cried…
I should’ve asked.
I release the handle, leaving the door closed, and walk for my room and open the door. As s
oon as I step inside, however, something fills up in my lungs, and I don’t know what it is, but a small laugh escapes as the tears stream at the same time.
The ominous Virginia Woolf posters and photographs of myself in thoughtful poses staring off into the wind.