Chapter 7
Wren
The raccoons or opossums, whatever they were, had seemingly moved on. Or at least, that’s what I told myself after a full night’s sleep, free of screeching from the ceiling.
They say New York never sleeps. Its heartbeat thrums through taxi engines, street vendors, and the occasional wail of sirens, but Everston woke up differently.
Here the light broke over the mountains and stretched through town quietly.
There were swallows in the trees, the distant rumble of a hay truck, and—for now, at least—no sign of the opossums.
When I first moved into this place, Gill hadn’t set foot in the master bedroom for months.
He said it was too hard to sleep without Edith.
I understood. Waking up without Lucy made mornings feel pointless.
I had since changed the curtains, replaced the bedspread, stripped the wallpaper, and repainted in soft linen tones that brightened the space.
But I left the four-poster bed; its dark wood and intricate carvings felt like something worth keeping.
A new rug, a few plants, and the room felt lived in again.
As I made my way down the stairs, I caught myself in the mirror, but I hardly recognized the woman who stared back.
My hair was shorter, now threaded with highlights, and it was thin and messy: I had lost so much of it in all the stress.
I wore contact lenses, hiding whatever once sparkled within my eyes.
I favored clothes that swallowed me, because it felt easier to move through the day hidden.
I’d had no intention of going to Henry’s grief group last night. But yesterday, while tending to the wildflowers as the evening grew dim, I’d waited for Lucy and she hadn’t arrived, so I’d found my feet carrying me back to Brandy’s.
Max was very clearly semiretired, and he didn’t wear socks with his loafers, but he had simply smiled at me when I sat in the corner, and perhaps that was enough in the moment, no pressure to unveil my deepest pain to a room full of strangers.
He started by asking how everyone was, and then most of the group introduced themselves to me.
Henry gave a little speech about how books and poetry had become a focal point of the sessions, at which point a man named Julian interrupted.
“I’ll admit,” Julian said, leaning forward on the stool slightly, “I never thought I’d say this, but I’ve been enjoying reading poetry.
Lesley caught me with my nose in a book the other day and couldn’t stop laughing.
She said, ‘Who are you and what have you done with my husband?’ I think she might be expecting some lines in our anniversary cards from now on. ”
The group laughed, and Julian brushed his hands through his sandy hair.
“I think…I think it helps,” he continued.
“You know, when words can say what you can’t.
Especially with everything Lesley and I have been through and continue to go through.
” His voice wavered, but he pressed on. “The miscarriages—it’s been a long road.
But hearing her laugh, even over something as ridiculous as me reading love poems…
I haven’t heard her laugh like that in so long. Maybe it’s worth it.”
I closed my eyes momentarily, blinking back the echo of Lucy’s laughter. It is often the smallest things that haunt you after they’re gone.
Bobby cleared his throat, his voice pulling me back.
He had the silkiest, loveliest voice. He could be a narrator.
“It’s funny,” he said. “I freaked out when Henry told me the pipes had burst at the library. I thought that meant this was all canceled. This—this group—it’s the first time in years I’ve felt like I belong anywhere, and the idea of losing that…
” He trailed off, then shook his head. “Well, honestly, I nearly had a meltdown.”
Henry flushed a little, the tips of his ears turning pink. “I, too, nearly had a meltdown,” he admitted, which earned a small chuckle from the group.
Bobby grinned. “Not to get sappy, but I realized it doesn’t matter if we’re at the library, here, in a park, or sitting on cardboard boxes. My real family never quite figured out how to be around me, but you all—you get me. And that’s enough for me.”
I thought of my own family. I sent a few text messages to my parents every now and then to let them know I was still alive, but not much more, much to their dismay.
They asked me often when I’d be coming home, but I still didn’t have an answer.
I’d left New York abruptly, telling them things had not become easier, that I needed more space, that I needed time to figure things out on my own.
And while that was true, the simpler, harder truth was that it was easier than admitting that after all this time, I didn’t know how to let them back in.
Marnie, who’d always been more of a sister than a cousin, had called me just last week.
Her voicemail was bright and cheerful, a gentle plea for me to call her back.
“I just miss you,” she’d said. “Even if it’s just a two-minute call to say hi, I’ll take it.
” We’d grown up together in Montana before my dad’s job took us to New York.
Despite the distance, we’d stayed close.
We used to send each other letters, scrawled in messy handwriting, then emails, filled with inside jokes, dreams, and teenage frustrations.
As adults, it became texts—quick snapshots of our lives.
But since Lucy’s passing even those had stopped.
And it wasn’t just Marnie or my parents.
There was an entire world I’d left behind in New York: a glittering, high-paced world that now felt like it belonged to someone else entirely.
Book launches at the Strand, cocktail parties in sleek SoHo lofts, rooftop events overlooking the skyline.
My publicist, Dana, used to drag me to gala dinners, literary award ceremonies, and high-profile events where I’d sip champagne and mingle with all sorts of other authors, publishers, journalists, and magazine editors.
But I used to walk into those rooms with Lucy by my side.
People would smile, offer congratulations on my latest book, or ask about my process, and then Lucy would speak and I would watch nearly every person fall under her spell.
Listening to her command an entire room would always make me fall in love with her all over again.
And we’d leave those events late at night, sliding into the back of a cab while laughing over some ridiculous conversation we’d had.
Grief has a way of building walls, and I’d let mine grow sky high.
“We’re glad you’re here, Bobby,” Henry said, interrupting my thoughts.
Somewhere behind the bar, Motown funk was playing faintly, its upbeat rhythm a strange contrast to the weight of the conversations being had.
“But I do promise we’ll have the library fixed soon,” he added. “And we’ll start fresh.”
There was a small murmur of relief among the group, as Henry’s words seemed to reassure them.
Winnie raised her hand theatrically, her bracelets jangling. “Well, speaking of starting fresh,” she said, “I’ve decided seventy-eight is the perfect age to reinvent yourself. Tell me, Bobby, would Tinder be your app of choice?”
The room laughed, and Winnie feigned an incredulous look. “I’m being serious!” She winked. “If I’m still figuring myself out at this ripe old age, that means all of you have years of reinvention ahead. That’s life, isn’t it? Things happen, and we have to keep finding new ways to be ourselves.”
“You don’t have time for Tinder,” Emerson quipped. “We’re much too busy.”
Winnie patted her shoulder in response.
“Shitty things happen,” Emerson added. “I’ve had to rethink my whole life.
It’s made me pretty angry, to say the least.” Her words hung in the air as she absentmindedly brushed her fingers across the burn scars down her neck and across her forearm.
They looked like delicate rivers etched into her skin, branching out in uneven trails.
Yet Emerson’s eyes were full of armor. She glanced at Henry and then at the rest of the group and shrugged.
“But being here is low-key great. Talking helps.”
“A much better alternative to silence,” Max agreed.
Rita, who had been quiet, spoke up, her voice cracking slightly. “I just want one day,” she said. “One day when my sister looks at me and remembers who I am. When we can gossip about all the things we used to gossip about. That’s all I want.”
The room grew still, heavy with her words. Then Gill, with his silver hair and bright-blue eyes, broke the silence. “Well, if anyone is wondering, it’s perfectly reasonable to cry into a stack of pancakes every now and then. Therapeutic even.”
“Is that your professional opinion, Gill?” Max asked, his lips pulling into a smile.
“Absolutely,” Gill replied, and he glanced at me knowingly.
Henry clapped, which startled me, but he looked at the group with a soft, satisfied smile.
“You know, I’ve said it before, but showing up—even when our normal spot is otherwise out of order—showing up for each other is half the battle.
The rest we can figure out, together.” It was clear that Henry, for all intents and purposes, was the glue of the group.
There was something steady about him. A kind of calm in an otherwise chaotic world.
He didn’t force anyone to share, but somehow, he made you want to.
I almost raised my hand to speak, and then the door opened.