Chapter Twenty-Three
Twenty-three
I haven’t been back to Galena in years, but I could still make the drive to the Outpost with my eyes closed.
It’s perhaps the only trip I can make without a GPS, actually—seven or so years later, every landmark and speed trap is still mapped in my memory.
Once we’re past the city traffic, it’s three hours of mostly farmland, all lush and green from the rain.
As many times as I’ve done this drive, it’s my first time leading a convoy—Rishi trails behind me with Gin and his parents, and Mom and Kurt bring up the rear.
Beside me, Chrissy is riding shotgun in the truck, humming along to country songs she definitely doesn’t actually know.
Renee is in the back, so quiet I can almost forget she’s even there.
Almost.
“How far out are we?” Chrissy asks—the first words out of her in some time. She hasn’t been as chatty as usual, at least not with me. She’s been tapping out texts to Chris the Waiter this whole drive.
“We’ve probably got about twenty minutes to go,” I estimate.
Chrissy whines in response. “Can we stop?”
“No. We’ve already stopped twice.” Renee’s voice slices through the air like the cold edge of a blade.
It reminds me of how she spoke to me at the start of the summer, but this time, it’s directed at Chrissy instead of me.
But that’s only because Renee and I aren’t speaking at the moment.
Not really, unless it’s about the wedding.
I’m no closer to knowing what to say or how to handle things with her; there hasn’t been time.
Emotionally, I’m worn thin, and going back to Galena is sure to wear me even thinner.
I’m not sure if I’m ready, but it doesn’t matter. We’re almost there.
We peel off the highway and cross the bridge into town, and my heavy heart leaps with a weightlessness I forgot existed.
I’ve never lived in Galena for longer than a summer, but driving back into the antique play-set town still feels like a homecoming.
The road curls like a ribbon between rows of brick buildings at mismatched heights—boutiques and breweries and knickknack shops begging you to get lost within them.
The sidewalks swarm with a crowd not entirely unlike the people of Palm Springs.
Wine moms, girls’ trip goers, elderly couples on group vacations—it’s all so familiar, the same old drive down the same old route to the house where I’ve been going all my life.
The truck bumps up the hill, and at the first crunch of gravel beneath the tires, I finally feel the shift.
It’s like we’ve crossed into a different time zone, and all the clocks are instantly wrong.
It’s all wrong. Everything. Because things aren’t the same at all.
My chest winds so tight, I can feel my pulse beneath my tongue.
I’m here and Dad’s not, and he never will be again.
As much as I’m trying not to feel right now, I can’t override the grief.
It’s here, as real and tender as a bruise.
At least there’s some relief, seeing that the house looks more or less how I remember it, the color of fresh gingerbread with grayish-blue shutters that read almost periwinkle in the midday sun.
Dad was usually the one to mow the lawn, but it’s only a little overgrown, so someone else must be tending to it.
My heart rips in two, half grateful someone has taken care of this place, half livid it couldn’t be the person it should have been.
I didn’t know a heart could ache this way, just from looking at a building, but I can feel it, sore, deep in my chest.
I park the truck at the top of the driveway, and Chrissy hops out first. Then there’s a gentle pressure on my shoulder, so quick that I almost think I’ve imagined it—but that one touch from Renee, the cool brush of her rings against my skin, will ripple through me for the rest of the day.
I know it might not mean much—even at her coldest, Renee always showed compassion regarding Dad’s death.
But still, she touched me. Despite how I hurt her.
It feels like it means something. I need it to.
I don’t get out of the truck right away.
I’m not sure how long I sit there, actually, staring at the house but too anxious to go in.
I hear the gentle rap of a knuckle on the driver’s side window.
Gin gives a timid smile and a wave, and I sigh, then step out of the truck. For her. I can do this for her.
“Hey. You doin’ okay?” Gin asks. “Do you need a minute?”
I shake my head. I wish I knew what I needed, but when I try to guess, all I can scrape out is a sigh.
“I’m here,” she reminds me. “Anything you need, I’m here.”
We congregate on the front porch: Gin and Rishi, Mom and Kurt, Mr. and Mrs. Bhat, Chrissy, and Renee, who lingers near the porch swing, putting an uncomfortable amount of distance between us.
“It’s as gorgeous as I remember,” Gin says, blinking up at the gabled roof with a wistful sigh.
“Thank you,” Mom and Kurt reply in unison, and I consider whether I should speak on behalf of the house, too.
It’s not mine, but it belongs to me the same way The Handful does—crucially, but not in a way that would hold up in court.
I’m pleased to see that my sole contribution to home renovation has stood the test of time: Above the door, the house number I stenciled in fluorescent paint as a teenager still stands—404 Fairbanks Avenue.
Error 404! House not found! Dad and I used to joke when visitors had a hard time finding the place.
“So…you’re thinking the ceremony would be in the backyard?” Rishi probably thinks he’s smiling the same way a four-year-old thinks he’s smiling on picture day. It’s more of a wince, the face of a man trying to convert his anxiety into enthusiasm.
“The backyard definitely has the most space, although we can keep the living room as a backup in case it rains.” I turn to Kurt for input, and he holds up his palms as if to say This is all you.
My throat double knots over my hammering heart as I slip my silver key into the lock and twist, unsealing the smell of pine and old paper.
It’s like cracking open a time capsule; the ache comes back, deep in my chest. Grief shape-shifts quicker than I can catch it.
Kurt must sense the shift in my energy or else he’s feeling a version of this, too; either way, he steps in as grand marshal to lead the group to the backyard while Mom and I fall back to inspect our memory of this place.
I trail my fingers through the thick coat of dust along the banister and watch the particles scatter in the caramel light.
Just the whine of the back door sounds so paralyzingly familiar that I briefly lose my grasp on time—it’s every summer, all at once—and then the door slaps shut, and we’re here again.
Now. I catch Mom’s glassy gaze from across the living room—the first time I’ve really looked her in the eye since we arrived.
Instantly, we break. Of course we do. Both of us, just like yesterday and so many nights this year.
I think we might just break like this forever, over and over.
It may never be enough, but someday, it won’t hurt so much.
I have to think so, at least. I have to believe that grief, like staying sober, will get a little easier even if it’s never quite easy.
Right now, Mom and I just hold each other. I’m so glad I’m not alone.
“Oh, sweetie,” Mom croaks. That’s all there is to say.
We cry until we’ve soaked each other’s sleeves with an unholy mixture of snot and tears.
Our sniffles grow further and further apart, and then Mom disappears into the bathroom for tissues and returns with a roll of toilet paper, still crying.
She unspools an outrageous amount of toilet paper, way more sheets than I could possibly need, rips them off, and holds the wad up like it’s a fish and she’s a guy on a dating app.
I laugh. And then she laughs. Then we’re both cackling.
A lot. Mom smacks a hand over her mouth, bracing herself against the wall like the laughter might knock her over.
I don’t know what comes over me, but it happens fast. I snatch up the toilet paper and wind it around the banister like a party streamer.
Mom howls. She scuttles off to the bathroom and comes back with three more rolls, tossing one over a chandelier.
Long, billowing strips of white shoot like jet trails overhead as we throw roll after roll, again and again, until we’ve made weeping willows out of every light fixture and I can’t tell if the tears are from laughter or grief.
“Is this normal?” I cry as we collapse on the floor beneath our artwork. Mom tosses her hands and swipes at her tears.
“I don’t know, honey. Whatever it takes to get through,” she says, and when I fashion myself a toilet paper bow tie, I recognize my own smile in the crooked hook of Mom’s lips. Maybe Dad’s not the only one I take after.
Rishi’s parents are rightfully perturbed by the impromptu toilet paper decorations, and regrettably, I’m not sure I could explain if I tried.
Luckily, I don’t have to—Chrissy is the last to walk in, but when she busts out her biggest laugh, Asha takes the cue and does it, too.
Then Kurt joins, then Gin, and soon, it’s all of us—nine unique laughs layered into one extended chord.
The house swells with a rich, textured harmony, and I can hear Renee rise above the rest, her tambourine rattle of a laugh just as sweet as ever.
There are always just as many reasons to laugh as there are to cry.
“Shall we continue the tour?” I dab my tears with one hand, motioning to Kurt with the other. He shares a brief look with Mom, then back to me.
“Courtney and I are going to stay downstairs.” He loops an arm around Mom’s waist. “Old house. Narrow halls. Lotta people.” He bounces a glance off the staircase and with a crinkled smile, asks, “Alice? Would you mind?”
My chest tightens just as the air-conditioning kicks on, grunting and humming to life and blowing up from the floor vents.
Overhead, the toilet paper garland flutters and flaps.
A few white strips whip loose and swirl to the ground, and my laugh dislodges the lump from my throat.
If I believed in signs, I’d say that one was from Dad.
Mom and Kurt step aside, and I lead the group up the creaky stairs and single file down the corridor.
As we go room to room, the conversation ducks in and out of wedding logistics and spring break stories.
For once, I’m the one trying to get Gin to focus, but she and Chrissy ricochet from the trundle bed to the crimped lampshades, activating new memories with everything they touch.
Renee lingers on the outskirts, smiling when someone is watching, but otherwise, she keeps her gaze low.
I drag my eyes away from her again and again, and if she looked back, I’m not sure what she’d see.
If my eyes are even a tenth as expressive as hers, I’m sure they’re screaming an indecipherable mess of mixed messages.
Yes. No. Maybe. I want. I need. I can’t.
We conclude the tour and convene in the living room to lay out a plan for the week: Mom and I still need time to go through Dad’s things—and Kurt will be joining us, I guess. The rest of the group will return to help clean and start setting up on Wednesday.
“Work permitting, of course.” Gin looks intentionally at Chrissy, then Renee. “I’m not sure if you guys took any time off or…”
“Oh, I’m technically working right now,” Chrissy says, batting her wrist. “No biggie.”
Renee is less confident. Her gaze drops to the side. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about work, actually.”
A prickle of interest climbs up my arms. Is this it? After an entire summer of keeping her job at the Blomquist under wraps, is this what unravels the lie? I chance a look toward Renee, and she’s looking back at me, eyes the color of worn denim. A pulse, then she pulls away.
“Gin, could we drive back to the city together?” Renee asks. “I think we should talk.”
Something leaps inside me. She’s really going to do it, isn’t she?
And then, as always seems to be the case lately, the conversation shifts back toward a plan.
Who is driving which car, and who do I trust to take the truck?
Logistics. It always circles back to logistics, and while I may have run the whiteboard, I yield all ringleading to Renee now that we’re here.
“Our professional event planner in residence!” Chrissy sings out. “Awfully nice of the Blomquist to lend you out for the week.”
And I know that Renee and I aren’t really talking right now.
I know that I should bite my tongue and not risk another glance in her direction.
But I remember that quick, gentle pressure on my shoulder before she climbed out of the truck.
How long did she think that over, I wonder?
Was it an accident? Was it an impulse? If she could go back, would she do it again?
My brain whirs away from me, but as we rotate through our group goodbyes, I do what feels right.
I return the favor—one gentle squeeze of Renee’s shoulder just before she walks out the door.