Chapter 51
N ora
It’s still early when I get there, but Cheryl answers the door instantly, like she’s been waiting. She steps aside to let me in. “You want coffee? Breakfast?”
“Just you,” I say, my voice small and tired.
We sit at her kitchen table, light from the window spilling over us, and I let it all come out in a rush. About Jericho, about Dad, about what I didn’t want to know.
She listens, the way she always has, but something is off now.
“What?” I ask.
She starts vigorously chewing on the inside of her cheek, averting her eyes to the wall, then to the floor, to the window. Anywhere but at me.
“What, Cheryl?”
She bites her flesh harder, and I fear she might draw blood.
“Cheryl,” I growl.
“I knew!” she blurts out.
“You knew what?”
“I knew about Dad’s anger problems.” The muscles on her cheek start moving under her skin. “You were younger and didn’t see it.”
“By two years?” I ask sarcastically.
She stops chewing her poor cheek as her eyes become pained. “You and I, we had different parents, Nora.”
“What do you mean?”
“Our parents were young when they had me, and they made many mistakes. I was sort of?” she cuts herself off, looking for the right word, “a training ground for them. They didn’t make the same mistakes with you.”
“Did he—” I suddenly can’t talk because my mouth is like dry cotton. “Did he ever hit you?”
The corners of her mouth point down as my only answer.
“Oh, Cheryl.”
She places her hand over mine, her warm palm grounding me to her phantom pain. “I’m not complaining, I still had a great childhood. But to me, his actions weren’t so… surprising.”
“And what about his death? It ruined our family.”
She smiles weakly as she shrugs. “Yes, it might have. But it started long before that.” She squeezes my hand. “What I’m saying is that I’d always been alert around Dad. Always attuned to the changes in his mood, but I’ve never felt the same around Jericho.”
Her sad eyes find mine and hold them.
“I know you’re scared of violence. I know that,” she repeats when she sees me opening my mouth to protest. “I know you don’t understand that, but I deal with it every single day. Sometimes it’s not as one-sided as it seems.”
“You sound like Grandma,” I mumble grouchily, already knowing I’ve been wrong to judge Jericho the way I did so fast. I thought only about myself without giving him the benefit of the doubt. If he never talks to me again, that’s on me.
“I don’t know what to do,” I tell her finally, when all my words have run out. “He probably will never forgive me.”
Cheryl sighs, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear like she used to when we were kids. “You’re not asking the right question, Nora.”
“What do you mean?”
“You keep asking what you should do. Maybe you should be asking why you’re so scared to hear his reasons.”
I stare at her, surprised by the challenge in her voice. “I’m not scared.”
“Aren’t you?” She leans back, studying me. “You ran from him without hearing him out. You wouldn’t let him explain. That doesn’t sound like the sister I know.”
“The sister you know doesn’t date people who can’t control their anger,” I snap.
“The sister I know believes in second chances.” Her voice softens. “The sister I know has been looking for someone to see her—really see her—for years.”
I swallow hard. “I thought he did.”
“Maybe he still does.” She reaches across the table for my hand. “Look, I’m not saying you have to forgive him for not telling you. That’s on him. I’m saying maybe you should hear him out before you decide there’s nothing to forgive.”
“What if his reasons aren’t good enough?”
She shrugs. “Then at least you’ll know. But what if they are?” The way she says it… like she knows more than she’s letting on.
I look down at our joined hands, at the steady strength of my sister who’s never let me down. “I’m scared,” I admit finally. “Not of him. But of being wrong. Of relying on the wrong people again. Of ending up alone.” My voice drops to a whisper. “You’re right, I’m scared of everything. ”
“Oh, Nora.” Cheryl squeezes my hand. “Being scared is normal.”
“You’re not scared of anything.”
She starts laughing. “I’m scared of everything. I mean it, almost everything.”
“Then how do you do the job you do every day?”
She shrugs. “I just show up and fight the fear every day.”
I blink. “So, I just need to show up?”
Her smile brightens her face. “Start with that and see how it goes.”
Fueled by Cheryl’s advice, I drive to Jericho’s house with my heart in my throat, rehearsing what I’ll say. But when I pull up, his truck is gone. The house sits dark and silent, like it’s holding its breath.
I wait for an hour on his porch, nestled in the comfort of his swing. Then two hours. He doesn’t come.
As the sun begins to set, casting long shadows across his empty driveway, I accept that he’s not coming back. Not today, at least.
I walk home, the weight of missed chances heavy on my shoulders. Grandma is in the kitchen when I arrive, stirring something on the stove that smells like childhood and comfort, and yet it’s not enough to calm my anxiety.
“Wanted to kick him in the nuts for keeping shit from you?” she asks, though she must know the answer from my face. “I’m sure it’s an easy task since his nuts are probably giant.”
I send a glare her way, not having any energy to fight my grandmother about her dirty-mouth ways. “He wasn’t home. And that’s not why I wanted to talk to him.”
“No?” She looks at me curiously. “Then why?”
I shrug one shoulder, not knowing how to explain this cacophony of feelings I’m experiencing. She watches my chaotic movements around the kitchen for a few moments, giving me the space I need before she talks again.
“Men like that, they need space when they’re hurting.”
Her words make me pause. “How do you know he’s hurting?”
She gives me a look that says I should know better. “Because the man loves you.”
Loves me? Does he? Because it feels like I sure love him—all this pain from losing him outweighs any fear at this point.
I pull the dinner out of the fridge and set it to warm up in the oven. Grandma opens the coffee machine and pours some dark roast beans in there. She glances at me from time to time.
“It’s caffeinated,” she says when I don’t say anything out loud.
I shrug.
“No decaf in here.”
I nod.
“And you are not going to fight me on that?” She sounds almost disappointed.
“Not today,” I sigh.
“All right, Nora Moon.” Her voice takes on an edge it used to have, years ago, when someone would misbehave in her diner. My spine automatically straightens from muscle memory. “Sit right here.” She points at the stool by the table in a tone that suggests zero options for not listening.
Naturally, I do as I’m told by the woman who raised me. I just can’t fight her when she’s using that tone on me.
“He fucked up,” she starts, making me wince.
When anyone sees my Grams, she seems like a little, white-haired angel.
Until she gets passionate or angry about something.
“Lord knows he did. That stupid boy should have told you about everything, but most men are not very smart when it comes to relationships. And Jericho seems to be one of those.” She rolls her lips inward .
“Jericho, huh?” I feel my lips twitch.
“Steve. Whatever.” She waves her hand in the air dismissively. “But you need to take him and teach him how to go about all of that.”
“And who will teach me?” I’m full-blown smiling now.
“Nora Moon.” She taps her fingers on the table. “Get your shit together and go hear Steve out. Before I change my mind and go pull him here by his ears.”
“You wouldn’t,” I chuckle.
“Watch me.”
With that, she returns to the coffee machine. I open my mouth to advise her about her caffeine consumption, but she quirks her brows with a silent challenge while slowly grabbing the pot and pouring herself a cup. I slump back on the stool—I’ll have this battle another day.
Later, I sit by my window, following Grandma’s advice.
The stars begin appearing one by one. The moon turns brighter as the world descends into night.
Heavy snowflakes start slowly falling to the ground.
The world is moving on from the awful day to a lonely night, and across the way, Jericho’s house remains dark.
I wonder where he is, what he’s thinking, and how mad he is at me.
My phone sits heavy in my palm. I could call him.
I should call him. But what would I say?
I’m sorry I didn’t listen? I’m sorry I judged you before I asked for your explanation?
I’m sorry I was afraid? Even though his messages told me he’d be waiting to talk when I was ready, I can’t help but feel terrible for how long I’ve made him wait.
Instead, I open my laptop, getting ready to type his name into the search bar. But my fingers linger on the keyboard. I could just type everything and read that article Dick showed me. I could .
But I shut the laptop and push it away. I should ask Jericho first, I owe him that.
For hours, sleep eludes me. No number of crystals around my bed and purging sage help me as I toss and turn, replaying our last conversation, thinking of all the things I should have said. All the questions I should have asked.
When dawn finally breaks, I have a plan.
I dress quickly and step outside, noticing with some concern that Jericho’s truck is still not in the driveway.
I decide to stick to my plan and drive to the diner anyway, arriving before anyone else.
I unlock the door and flip on the lights, the familiar space comforting in its constancy.
I start the coffee, pull out ingredients, and get to work.
By the time Roman arrives, I’ve baked two pies—apple cinnamon, Jericho’s favorite, and chocolate cream, which I’ve seen him devour on more than one occasion.
“Well, well,” Roman says, hanging up his coat. “What’s the occasion?”
“Peace offering,” I say, carefully boxing the pies.
He leans in to one of the pies to get a sniff. “Are you sure he won’t die?”
“I hope not because I’ve got plans.”
Roman nods, a slight smile playing at his lips. “Good luck to you both then.” Roman hands me a thermos of fresh coffee. “Give him my brew. To set the mood,” he adds with a wink.
I accept it even though I doubt Roman’s inhumane brew will set the right kind of vibe for this conversation.
The drive to Jericho’s house feels longer than usual, each turn of the wheel weighted with anticipation and dread. What if he’s still not home? What if he is, but he’s decided he doesn’t want to see me? What if I’ve waited too long?
When I pull up to his house, his truck is parked in the driveway. My heart leaps, then plummets. He’s home, but no lights are visible.
I sit in my car for several minutes, gathering courage. The pies beside me fill the car with the scent of cinnamon and sugar, a homey smell that seems at odds with the knot in my stomach.
Finally, I take a deep breath and step out, cradling the bag of pies against my chest like armor. The walk to his front door feels like miles.
I knock, softly at first, then louder when there’s no response.
“Jericho?” I call, pressing my ear to the door. “It’s me.”
Silence.
I try the handle—locked. Of course.
Disappointment settles heavy in my chest. I turn to leave, but something stops me. The porch light. It’s on, despite the daylight. Jericho is meticulous about things like that. He wouldn’t leave a light on during the day.
I circle around to the back of the house, toward the screened porch where he works sometimes. The door there is slightly ajar.
“Jericho?” I call again, pushing it open wider.
The porch is empty, but I can see through the window into the kitchen. There’s a mug on the counter, steam still rising from it.
He’s here.
I knock on the kitchen door, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Jericho, please. I just want to talk.”
The door swings open so suddenly I nearly drop the pies. He stands there, hair disheveled, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. He’s wearing my favorite red flannel and worn-out jeans that look so good on him.
“Nora?” His voice is rough as if he hasn’t used it for a while.
I hold up the bag. “I brought pies.”
His expression turns puzzled. “Pies.”
“Peace offering pie,” I clarify, feeling more foolish by the second. “Apple cinnamon. And chocolate cream. I wasn’t sure which you’d prefer.”
He stares at me for a long moment.
“I don’t bake,” I say when the silence is too heavy. “Not anymore. For anyone. Everyone around me always bakes. Roman. Grandma. So there’s no need for me to bake.” I’m blabbering at this point. “Plus Dick always said… well, who cares what he said.”
He’s watching me with a guarded expression without saying anything.
“Anyway, I baked these.” I hold up the bag in my hands. “For you. They probably won’t be edible, but I baked them. Yeah.”
Swallowing a giant lump of embarrassment, I pull the bag with the pies back to my chest. It’s not going the way I thought it would go. I’m not sure what I expected, but this coldness in his eyes and posture is not it.
His eyes dart between mine, and then he steps back from the door.