Chapter 21
“Mom?” I call out, shutting the door behind me.
Her muffled reply comes a minute later. “In here!”
I follow her voice down the hallway and into the bedroom that used to belong to my parents’. I avoid entering it. Last time I did, it looked the same as always.
Now? It’s unrecognizable. All of the furniture—queen-size bed, dresser, and a rocking chair that Mom’s dad carved himself—has been pushed to the center of the room and covered with clear plastic. Mom is crouching in one corner, a roll of blue tape on either wrist, measuring the baseboard.
“Uh, what’s going on?” I ask.
“Write down sixty-four inches,” she instructs.
“Write? Where?”
“There’s a notepad over there.” She nods to the other corner.
I walk over, picking up the pad of paper and pencil, and write down the measurement. I drop both and glance around again. “You’re … renovating?”
“Only painting for now. We can paint yours too, if you want. No dorm room to decorate.”
“No one paints their dorm room, Mom.”
“I know that because I went to college. How do you know that?”
I sigh. “Can we not do this tonight? Please? I had a long day.”
“It’s not too late for second semester, Sawyer. Or for next year.”
I hold her gaze, saying nothing, and she exhales.
“Fine. You know how I feel about it.”
“Do you have the paint already?”
She nods. “It’s in the closet. I needed it out of the way while I moved the furniture around.”
I walk over to the closet and open the door, bending down to look at the cans. Spin one to see the sample smeared on the side. “Pink?”
“It’s my favorite color.”
“It is?” I straighten, surprised, as I glance over one shoulder.
Mom’s nod is decisive.
Pink is not a color I associate with my mom. She’s more of a deep green or a vibrant blue. A bold shade that camouflages bruises and shadows grief. Not quite black. Not too dark, but close.
I glance at the nearest wall. I always thought the paint in here was white, but it isn’t really. More of a very light gray, like some of my athletic socks that I’ve accidentally washed with darker clothing a few times.
“Pink it is,” I say. “Dad would hate it.”
“He would.” Mom’s tone is vehement. A little gleeful too.
My father had very traditional views when it came to gender roles.
He hated Mom’s job—resented how people thanked her for her service, same as they thanked him—and I think the only reason he never insisted on her changing careers was her deployments.
When she was gone, there was no interference with me practicing pitching for hours.
With him spoiling Skylar, ensuring he was her favorite parent.
It was also one of the reasons Mom never left him, I think. Dad would have fought for sole custody, and there’s a decent chance he would have gotten it.
Watching the pale pink cover the old color is oddly soothing. We work in silence, until Mom drags an old radio out of the hall closet and plugs it into the wall. The song playing isn’t one I recognize, but Mom hums along. It’s more static than music, but that pairs well with the glide of paint.
It takes us two hours to get a first coat on and clean up. Mom makes dinner while I take a shower.
I’ve only taken one bite of my pasta when she tells me, “I boxed up Skylar’s room.”
I freeze mid-chew. Force myself to swallow.
“You were right; this house holds a lot of hard memories. Neither of them is coming back.”
“I know that.”
“I’m sorry it took me so long, honey.”
“Don’t … don’t apologize.”
She doesn’t have anything to apologize for, least of all grieving.
We eat in silence for a few minutes.
“Do you have plans tonight?”
“Wade wanted to do a bonfire. But if you want to do more painting, I can—”
“No, no. Go have fun with your friends. I’m wiped.”
I nod, polishing off the rest of my dinner. I help load the dishwasher, pull on a hoodie, and head out to my truck. Gus is waiting, sitting on the tailgate.
“Why are your hands … pink?” he asks as I start the engine.
I scrubbed at them in the shower, but some of the streaks wouldn’t come off.
“My mom is painting her bedroom. I assisted.”
“That’s cool,” Gus says, leaning forward to flip on the radio and then slouching back against the seat. “FYI … Wade invited everyone.”
“Yeah. I saw he texted the whole group.”
“Not just our group. Everyone … from work.”
This time, I understand his meaning.
“Whatever,” I say dismissively, taking the next left. “Want to go fishing in the morning?”
“Hell yeah. Off the breakwater?”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“I’ve got bait from last summer stashed in the garage freezer. My mom’s been begging me to get rid of it. Remind me to grab it.”
“What kind?” I ask as I park.
“I dunno,” Gus replies, hopping out. “Worms probably?”
I shut my truck door, stuffing my hands in the hoodie pocket as we trek toward the stone circle ahead. Salty wind whips through my hair, making me wish I’d worn a hat. I pull up my sweatshirt’s hood.
The tension in my shoulders disappears when Gus and I reach the group, dispelling my theory it was soreness from painting. Worse is the way the apprehension is replaced with disappointment. Worst is the way the emptiness of it lingers.
I wish she were here, and I really wish I hadn’t even noticed she wasn’t.
I try to distract myself, but I mostly stare at the flickering flames, listening to overlapping conversations.
Macie tells me about a tennis tournament at the country club she’s entered.
Wade pulls out a vintage guitar, plucking notes to a country song that he knows about half the words to.
The rest he makes up. The resulting melody is underwhelming.
Everyone talking and the crash of surf drown most of it out, thankfully.
“I’m craving ice cream,” Ricky announces once the fire has smoldered down to embers. “Anyone else?”
“Me!” Macie says. “How late is What’s the Scoop open?”
“Eleven in the summers, I think,” Gus replies.
“It’s ten thirty,” Abby says, standing. “Let’s go.”
Everyone collects shoes and phones, Wade douses the ashes from the fire, and then we migrate over to the cars.
Gus and I are the first ones to arrive at the ice cream shop. It’s crowded with families and teenagers. Mostly tourists, but a few faces I recognize. Gus stops to chat with one of his younger brothers. I say hi to Nate, then scan the list of flavors.
Over the communal ruckus, I’m not sure how I hear it. But I do, glancing at the clustered picnic tables with renewed interest. I already know what the sound means, but I want to see it for myself.
Her. Laugh.
I recognize her fucking laugh.
Wren is sitting on the edge of the table, not the attached bench, head tipped back as she reacts to whatever a wildly gesticulating brunette told her.
I stare for a few seconds too many, and she glances this way. Randomly at first, and then her gaze lingers.
Our eyes collide. Remain connected.
I wondered, when she wasn’t at the bonfire, where she was. I have an answer, and I still feel unsatisfied. I didn’t want to know where she was. I wanted to see her. Be near her. Talk to her. We haven’t spoken since I confronted her at her car, and … fuck. I miss her.
Wren looks away first, slipping off the table and turning to face her friends, back to me. Whatever she says has everyone moving. Their picnic table is empty by the time Gus and I join the end of the line. They’re gone before anyone else arrives, peeling out in three luxury cars.
I’m not sure why Wren ignoring me feels worse than anything else she might have done, but it does.