9
By late afternoon, Bainbridge Island is in sight. I feel a million shades of nostalgic as we reach the Agate Pass Bridge,
exiting 305 to the turnoff that leads to Manzanita Beach and the old gravel drive that brings me home. I look out the window,
heart bursting. Every Douglas fir and cedar tree seems to be swaying in the breeze as if they’re all waving hello. For the
first time in these past days, I feel a shred of hope. I’m home, and I know Rosie will help me snap out of this.
“Wow, this place hasn’t changed a bit,” Spencer says, pulling the car to a stop in Rosie’s driveway. “Remember, that summer
we met, you invited me over for a clam bake on the beach?”
“Oh, that’s right!” I say, memories rushing back. “We swung on that old rope swing...”
“And your bikini top almost fell off,” Spencer adds.
I cover my face. “No! Tell me it didn’t .”
“You were in the clear,” he assures me. “But it was close to being the most epic wardrobe malfunction this island’s ever seen.”
I laugh, reaching for my purse. “Well, thank you for coming all this way just to get me home.”
Spencer smiles. “My pleasure.”
I feel bad not to invite him inside, but Rosie and I have private things to discuss, and yet, there’s time. He could at least come in for a little while. “Hey,” I finally say. “Why don’t you pop in for a bit? I know Rosie would love to see you.”
“You sure?” he asks, fingering his seat belt.
“Sure,” I tell him.
Gravel crunches under our feet as we walk the path to the front door, which is uncharacteristically locked. I find the spare
key under the rock beside the doormat that I painted the summer I turned thirteen. lena , it says, surrounded by butterflies and hearts.
“Rosie?” I call, peering inside as I bat away a cobweb that runs the length of the doorframe. “It’s me! I’m home!” I adjust
the painting on the entryway wall, its frame leaning unsteadily to the right. “Rosie?”
Spencer follows me to the kitchen, where I stop in my tracks. Dirty plates and cups litter the countertop; a moldy baguette
on the cutting board looks practically petrified.
“Something’s wrong,” I say, panicked, running to my aunt’s beloved reading chair in the living room, which is eerily empty.
A layer of dust blankets the cover of Fifty Shades of Grey on the adjacent side table.
“Rosie!” I cry, panicked. “Where are you?”
I don’t stop when Spencer’s hand grazes my shoulder, as if to say, Whatever’s happening, it’ll be okay . Instead, I run down the hallway, past my childhood bedroom to Rosie’s, where I find an empty hospital bed with disconnected
wires and cords beside a medical monitoring machine. “No, Rosie. No. No, no, no, no, no.” I press my hands against the rumpled
linens, before falling to my knees.
“I don’t believe this,” I whisper. “What happened? Why didn’t she...” I hang my head, lost in grief, the only consolation
being the fact that maybe—just maybe—I’ll wake up tomorrow and this will all be undone. And yet, I’m devastated.
“So she was sick?” Spencer asks, kneeling beside me, his face mirroring my state of shock.
I shake my head. “No. I mean, not that I knew.”
“Come here,” Spencer says, pulling me close as I weep. Frankie would call this “ugly crying,” which is exactly how I’d describe my present state: blotchy, swollen, hysterical. He holds me for a long moment, and when I finally sit up and wipe away my tears, I feel something crinkle in the back pocket of my pants—the letter from the attorney that I’d tucked in there this morning. I pull it out, tearing the edge of the envelope.
Dear Ms. Westbrook,
As you may know, your aunt, Rosie McAllister, passed away last week, tragically, from an infection she contracted in India.
I, and everyone at Branson, Fairchild no lawyers unless partner-track), MBA (preferably
Ivy League), fit, tall (no less than six-foot-one), no cats, no Ultimate Frisbee, no mustache, good hair, good teeth, no Tevas
or Crocs, have a passport, own a tux (bonus points for Tom Ford), iPhone not Android, impeccable taste in furniture (no IKEA!),
no Hacky Sacks or vegan diets, no tattoos.
I glance at Spencer’s arm, where his family’s birth dates are lovingly inked. While my dossier for the perfect partner used
to seem normal, it now feels... kind of ridiculous. How did I become so closed-minded?
I sigh, resting my head against Spencer’s shoulder. In the morning, I’ll probably be somewhere else, with someone else—maybe
with a tattoo, or a mustache and Tevas, Lord help me. Spencer may or may not remember any of this, but I will. I’ll treasure
the memory of my sweet barista and how he so competently carried my heavy bags, for a little while.