Chapter 41
41
Tatum
“Welcome to the second annual Ward family reunion!” I say into the mic, standing on my parents’ front lawn. “This year, I made us all shirts!”
June does the work of passing them out. They’re a dark green, which we agreed was universally the best color and also made sense for the Trove Hills of it all, considering the forest preserve on the edge of town. June already wears hers, pairing it with a long-sleeved striped turtleneck underneath, tucking both into the jeans she’s cuffed to show her combat boots. She swears she’s not sweating, but I know she is. She’ll do anything for fashion, even in July. Still, she looks as lovely as ever. Our dog, Daisy, pants at her feet, smiling happily at my family members, hoping to score some head scratches.
“Per Ben’s request, this year we have a game of baseball,” I announce. “That will be tomorrow. Your teams have all been emailed to you. Please see Carson if you have any issues with where you’ve been placed. Aunt Fran, I don’t want to hear anything about how you think the teams are unfair. It was randomized. The point is this year, we’re doing things that Ben likes. And Ben, as you all know by now, is a seventh-grade science teacher. Which means today, he’s going to teach us about the mitochondria!”
The crowd reacts with unguarded disappointment.
“I’m kidding ,” I say. “We’re going to do trivia, actually. Family trivia. May the best Ward win!”
I leave my mic to pass out sheets to my relatives. This game took me hours to put together. The questions range from silly things like, “When was the last time a Ward ate a piece of Carson’s Jell-O cake?,” to obscure ones like, “What are the night dogs?,” to sincere ones like, “What is the name of Ben’s beloved cat?”
I give my family thirty minutes to submit answers. They return their sheets to me, and June and I begin the work of grading them.
It takes over an hour for me to read the answers aloud. Each reveal brings on a new round of grilling from my family. Laney finally learns the truth about the night dogs—that they are not real—and she gets so worked up she attempts to actually wrestle me.
“I’m sorry!” I say, fighting her off. “Blame Emmett! He was the one who didn’t want us to tell you the truth!”
“C’mon,” Carson says. “How could you, a full-grown adult, actually believe there are dangerous wild dogs who roam our town after midnight?”
This gets Laney’s attention off me and onto them, which I appreciate.
We are messy, and we are loud, and sometimes, we’re rude. But I’ll give us this—we Wards are always entertaining.
When I get to the last question, I take a deep breath, enjoying the spectacle. Everyone still believes they’re in the mix to win this. The truth is, the winner took the victory several answers ago. But no one in my family seems to remember what they wrote on their papers, and since they don’t have the sheet in front of them to refresh their memory, this last reveal still holds real weight.
“Ward family,” I say, low and serious. “For the game-winning point, the question was ‘How are we related to Lydia?’?”
This sends the entire family into hysterics. The sound is so jarring it startles my dog, who hops into June’s lap to take cover.
“Lydia has been coming to all our family events for well over twenty years,” I say. “And it’s a long-running joke that no one knows her relation to us. But I finally took the time to find it out. And so, it seems, did someone else among us. Our winner.”
My family members begin looking at one another, trying to identify who it is. When no one stands up to claim the title, they start to grill Lydia herself, who relishes this attention.
“It’s not for me to say,” she tells them, winking at me.
And so, with great theatricality, I lean into the mic. In a low voice, I say, “The winner of the first ever Ward Family Trivia Contest is…”
June does a drum roll with our dog’s paws.
“Eleanor Chapman!”
Eleanor rises, met with raucous applause. She accepts her victory graciously, coming up to claim her prize—a glass container full of candy.
“Congratulations,” I say, shaking her hand. “Anything you want to tell your fans?”
Eleanor presses a hand to her heart, treating the silliness of this moment with full gravitas. It’s one of her best qualities. For as serious as she seems, she’s never one to back away from a joke.
“I’d like to thank myself,” she says, “for always being the best at everything I do.”
Everyone laughs.
“She’s a riot,” Aunt Fran whispers.
“And Lydia’s not related to any of you, by the way,” she tells the crowd. “She was Carl’s neighbor growing up. She just likes coming to this stuff.”
“Wait,” June says. “There’s one more question.”
I place a hand on her shoulder. “No, there isn’t. I wrote this quiz.”
“There is,” she insists. She looks up at me, through me, in the way she always can. “There’s one more question.”
She hands me a piece of paper. One that looks much the same as all the others. Yet in the space where the participant is supposed to write their name, mine has been put there in June’s long, flowy cursive.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Read the question, Tatum,” she commands. “It’s the last one on the paper.”
My eyes fly down, past all my trivia, to find there is indeed one more thing written. But not by me.
“Don’t read in your head,” June warns. “Do it aloud. Into the mic.”
She’s so commanding that I do as I’m told, reading the question aloud before processing it in my mind. “?‘Bonus question,’?” I start. “?‘It’s been nine months since Tatum moved to New York City. In that time, she and her girlfriend have lived in separate apartments. Is she ready to move into her girlfriend’s apartment with her?’?”
My eyes water as I process the question in real time. I have wondered for weeks—months, really—if we should do this. But I’ve been second-guessing myself, wanting to be sure June had enough time on her own. Never wanting to rush things.
“Tatum,” she says. “I’m tired of waking up in the morning without you there. I’m tired of hearing about the novel you’re writing while lying in a bed we don’t share. I think we’ve both had more than enough New York independence.”
Eleanor hands me back her jar of candy. “Here,” she says.
“I don’t need this,” I tell her. She’s not usually one for interrupting a moment. If she didn’t want the prize, she could have told me at literally any other time.
“You do need this,” Eleanor insists.
Looking again at June, I search her face for a clue. She gives away nothing, instead nudging her head toward the jar. When I unscrew the lid, there is a vial of perfume sitting atop a pile of Starbursts.
“How did you…” I start. “Did you guys rig this?”
“A little bit,” June admits. She picks up the vial. Beneath the Lightbell label, where the perfume’s name is usually written, it says Tatum in June’s handwriting. “I finally got your scent right.”
She uncorks the lid, and I breathe it in. “It’s a skin scent,” I say, knowing perfumes for real now. Skin scents are lighter, meant to enhance the smell of your actual skin.
“Yes,” she says, her smile proud.
“Maybe some amber?” I guess, smelling again. She nods.
“I know how you move through the world now,” she tells me. “Who you are. How you love. The first time I made you a perfume, I was trying so hard to capture my idea of you. This,” she says, spraying her creation onto me. “This is you.”
And she’s right. It is. The smell is gentle at first. Subtle. It’s something you have to be up close to really understand. Then it’s full, warm, and woody.
It’s me.
“Thank you,” I say, moving in for a kiss.
She backs away. “Hold on,” she says. “You didn’t answer my question. Will you live with me?”
I move in again, kissing June hard, ignoring the whoops of appreciation from my family. While they’re here for it, this moment is only for June and me, in the town where we met, agreeing to link ourselves together in the city where we fell in love.
“Of course I will,” I tell her.
It’s the closing of a loop, and the beginning of a new one.
It’s my life.