Chapter 14
My head throbbed the next morning, reminding me how much of a lightweight I’d become. Though I tried to keep up with Brooke and the rest of the band, most nights I consumed half the alcohol they did.
Annabelle made me a pot of coffee, then sat at her usual place at the table.
She was reading The Canterville Ghost , which I wanted to make fun of her for but couldn’t summon the energy.
Staying at the kitchen table, I read the Town Crier for a few peaceful moments in silence.
The front page was full of details about the Mackinac Astronomical Society’s plans for the super blood moon viewing party next week at the Somewhere in Time Gazebo.
“You look terrible,” Yasmin said as she entered the kitchen.
I couldn’t summon the energy to respond to that either, so I halfheartedly flipped her the bird.
“How about breakfast?” Annabelle asked. She flowed over to the refrigerator and hummed a tune while she considered what to make.
I got up to pour myself more coffee, then stayed at the counter, watching Annabelle pick things out of the fridge. Yasmin stood by the sink, filling the kettle. The too-full feeling came back to my chest, but it hurt less than it had the night before.
I knew I should tell them about Seymour’s offer to buy the house.
I didn’t tell them.
As Annabelle pulled milk from the fridge, a precarious stack of food items came crashing down. A carton of eggs wobbled for a moment on the tip of the shelf, then tumbled to the floor.
“Oh, drat!” Annabelle exclaimed.
“I’ll get it.” I pulled off a sheet of paper towels, making a mental note to buy a holder for them. At this rate, I was going to single-handedly buy out the entire island’s supply of eggs.
Yasmin interrupted, yelling, “Wait!”
“What?”
She nudged me aside. Instead of answering, she knelt down by the spill.
Two eggs had fallen out of the carton. Yasmin peered at the broken shells.
Yellow and orange goo leaked out and spread onto the dingy linoleum floor.
Absent-mindedly, I wondered how much it would cost to redo the floor in vinyl.
Yasmin muttered to herself for a moment, then sighed. “Nope. It’s no use.”
“What are you doing?” I asked. “Please don’t say you’re telling the future using broken eggs.”
She stood up and shook her head. “My mom’s better at scrying than I am.”
Annabelle patted the vicinity of her shoulder in sympathy.
“Well, I mean, it’s eggs,” I said. “So don’t beat yourself up.
” I dumped the gooey carton in the sink and cleaned up the mess on the floor while Yasmin finished making her tea.
Then I turned back to the refrigerator. It was a yellow 1970s GE model that miraculously still worked.
Though, like many things in this house, it made funny noises every now and then.
“Marley, I will buy you a new fridge,” I said decisively. “This one is too small.”
Annabelle said, “Oh, that’s not necessary, Gibson, really.” But she gazed thoughtfully at the old refrigerator as if mentally measuring for a new one. “Although it would be nice, since there are a few more people ... staying here now.” She very carefully didn’t say “living here.”
“I thought you were going to sell the house,” Yasmin said, sipping her hot tea carefully. Her mug had a picture of a cat with sunglasses on it. “If you don’t give it to me, that is.”
“I’m not giving the house to you.” She was right. I didn’t say that she was right, though. She would have to pry the words “you’re right, Yas” out of my clenched teeth.
“What’s the point in buying a new fridge if you just sell the house? Why buy a new appliance for people you don’t even know?”
Annabelle watched our exchange, her head swiveling between us like we were engaged in a tennis match.
But my head was throbbing, so instead of taking the bait—or telling them about Seymour’s offer—I just sighed. “I’m not buying a new appliance for anyone except Annabelle. Okay?”
“And I appreciate it very much, Gibson,” Annabelle said diplomatically. She didn’t have to say, “And that’s that—no more fighting.”
The three of us gave up on breakfast and returned to our places around the kitchen table with our beverages. For her choice of smell, Annabelle boiled a cup of water and added a lemon to it. I went back to the newspaper, Annabelle read her novel, and Yasmin consulted Agatha’s magic book.
“Actually, I need to run something by you,” Yasmin said, suddenly. She bit her lip, looking shy.
I scoffed. “You? Run something by me? Who are you and what have you done with my cousin?”
“Ha ha.” Yasmin stuck her tongue out at me, then faced Annabelle. “I meant Annabelle.”
“Oh!” She looked up from her book, carefully placing a ribbon in the book to mark her place. “Yes? You really don’t need to consult me on things, you know. But I’ll help if I can.”
“I wanted to have Nate over for dinner.” Yasmin bit her lip and wouldn’t look at me.
“That’s a wonderful idea!” Annabelle clapped her hands together. In her excitement, she left her chair, floating a few inches above it for a moment before realizing and lowering herself back down. “Isn’t it, Gibson?”
“Uh . . .”
“Isn’t it, Gibson?” This time, her voice was syrupy sweet—daring me to disagree.
I faced Yasmin. “Yes, it’s great. Have over your himbo.”
“He’s not—” Yasmin considered. “Thanks.”
“I have recipe books in the den,” said Annabelle. “I’ll find a good one to make for all of us.” She got up and flowed toward her library, then turned and said, “Gibson, I’ll give you a list of items I’ll need. Make sure you go before the store closes so you have enough time to shop.”
“Why am I the one doing the shopping?” I protested. But she was already out of sight, still humming.
I shrugged and turned back to my newspaper.
“Also,” Yasmin said, “you’re going to meet us for lunch.” It wasn’t a question.
“Who’s us?”
“Me and Miranda.” Her face was deadly serious. Like, “someone dying” serious.
“Umm,” I said.
“At the fish-and-chips place. One o’clock.” She slammed her book shut and got up to leave.
“No. I cannot go to The Codfather. That place is ridiculous.” My stomach growled, betraying its desire for food, even terrible fish and chips.
Yasmin rolled her eyes so hard I wondered how they stayed in her head. “You’ll be fine. I’m going to Miranda’s. Meet us at one o’clock.” She left, swishing her skirt aggressively.
“Okay,” I said out loud to no one. “I guess today is ‘order Gibson around’ day.”
The house didn’t answer, unsympathetic to my plight.
***
That morning, I emailed Babs with the last of my current client’s deliverables.
I sent her an instant message with the date of my return and asked not to receive any new work until I got back.
She replied with happy face emojis, house emojis, and dollar signs.
More importantly, she agreed not to send me any work and insisted we go out for drinks to celebrate when I got back.
True to his word, Seymour emailed me the offer paperwork.
But when I opened it, the words swam in front of my eyes, and I just .
.. couldn’t make myself process the information.
Instead, I researched the name of the music executive Brooke had mentioned.
He seemed legit. The show on the thirty-first was listed on the venue’s website and had gotten some advance hype.
I looked at return flights but couldn’t make myself pick one. None of the options were right. The time wasn’t great, or they flew into JFK, or they wanted to charge me extra just for existing. I closed my laptop and walked into the garden.
Behind Yasmin’s shed, I found a rack with rusting garden tools. There was also a plastic container with several pairs of gloves and hedge clippers that fared much better than the ones exposed to the elements.
As I hacked my way through a mess of shrubs, I discovered a ring of old stones deeply set in the ground. Dirt and weeds choked the middle of the fire pit, but the ring was intact and the stones were in fairly good shape.
What did you know? There was an actual place for a bonfire back here.
I snapped a picture of the pit, then a few of the back of the house from my vantage point at the fence, and sent them to Brooke with a fire emoji plus a marshmallow.
“wow what a dump” was her response.
“Haha yeah it’s a little rough,” I replied.
“maybe u should burn the house down and claim the insurance”
I winced as I read her texts. I should’ve expected her mocking tone, though. She sounded exactly like I did when I first got here.
“looks like the ending of Blair witch”
I laughed at that one, then responded with, “you don’t even know.”
“good for u tho, man, glad someone’s gonna pay u 4 it!”
I swallowed past the lump that rose in my throat and sent a thumbs-up, wanting the conversation to end.
Turning back to the fire pit, I managed to clear most of the debris and weeds out of the middle.
I was sweating through my shirt, but the exertion felt good, like the stress leaked out through my skin and joined the humid morning air.
About ten minutes later, Brook sent another text. It said, “btw lemme know if u have thots on this... im not sure it’ll be anything yet” This was followed by a screenshot of her Notes app, which showed a set of unfinished lyrics.
hey girl hi
wanna come back down
hey girl hi
can we go downtown
my girl mine
wanna come back down
from that ledge
like Christmas in July
I watch my baby fly
come back down, yeah
come back down to me
I saved the image to my phone. We had never written lyrics together. In fact, I’d never been much of a writer at all. But the idea of creating a song called to me, even if it was started by someone else.
Leaving the garden tools behind, I went back in the house and showered. Then I grabbed my guitar and a notebook, glad to have a new project to take my mind off the conversations I wasn’t ready to have.
***