Chapter 18
ANDERSON
I try to keep my face neutral, even though my heart is breaking for this little girl.
I know what it feels like to lose a father so young.
I know what kind of hole it leaves not only in your life but in your soul—like part of the person you were going to grow up to be is completely ripped out from inside of you.
And hearing her say how the house she was living in stopped feeling like her home when she lost him has my throat feeling like I’m swallowing broken glass, the emotion making it hard to get any words out.
“It’s the people in the house who make it a home.
” The words come from a place deep inside me, one that I often forget about.
It’s the place where I put all my grief when my dad died.
The same place it ebbed and flowed with every year of my childhood that went on without him, until suddenly I had lived more of my life without him than with him.
A place that I go to when I miss him, even as an adult, just to remind me of him. The hurt of losing him is the only thing I have left of him.
I push the button for the fourth floor.
“After my dad died, my mom got rid of everything that reminded her of him,” Georgie admits over the soft humming of the elevator moving. “I think that’s what made it stop feeling like home.”
I sigh, remembering the way that my mom did the exact opposite after my dad died, keeping everything almost exactly the way he left it—from his work boots he had taken off in the garage that evening, to the empty can of beer he left in the cup holder of his recliner in the basement before he went to bed that night.
It took years to clean up the remaining remnants of him.
But even to this day, the closet they shared is still half-full with his clothes, the pantry still stocked with his favorite type of pretzels—the ones he used to snack on as she made dinner, promising they wouldn’t ruin his appetite—as if one of these days he’ll come home and pick up where he left off.
Maybe that’s why I still add to the record collection he helped me build, even if he’s not here anymore.
“When did your dad die?” Georgie asks.
The elevator dings, and the doors open to the fourth floor. We both step out, walking down the hallway. “I was eight. He had a heart attack in the middle of the night.”
I can still remember the frantic shuffling, the muffled voice of my mom saying his name, growing in volume when he didn’t respond.
The fire truck arrived first, and that was when I learned that firefighters respond to 911 calls, along with police officers and emergency medical technicians.
And when my brothers and I sat in the hospital, still in our pajamas, and our mom came to tell us that the doctor told her Dad didn’t make it, I decided I was going to be one of those guys who comes to the rescue.
To make sure no other kid ever had to hold his little brothers and his mom as they cried, wishing his arms were as big as his dad’s, so he’d be able to wrap his arms around them all.
Neither Georgie nor I say anything until we reach the apartment door.
“I get why people always say, ‘I’m sorry’, when they find out someone died. There’s not really much else to say,” she says.
I’m surprised by the laugh that escapes my throat, the dryness of her delivery catching me off guard. But she’s right. “I always hated when people would apologize.”
“It’s the worst,” Georgie exclaims, unlocking the apartment door and holding it open for me to follow her in.
“It’s like, what are you apologizing for?
You didn’t kill him.” She toes off her sneakers and takes off her coat before hanging up her backpack on one of the three empty silver hooks by the door—hers looking newer than the other two.
She unzips it, grabbing a binder and a pencil case.
“Unless you're the driver of the car that crashed into him, I don’t want to hear you say sorry.”
I chuckle, but only because if I don’t, I think a tear will fall.
Stepping out of my workboots and walking into the kitchen with her, noticing how insanely spotless the apartment is, I feel like I’m making a mess just by existing in it. I can’t get over how much it looks like a staged home. No pictures, no unopened mail, no forgotten socks underneath the couch.
Since the bedroom doors are closed, it seems the place is devoid of any personal touches.
The only thing I can spot is a small crystal bowl, one you’d find at a thrift store or your grandmother’s house.
It’s sitting at the center of the coffee table in the living room, and it almost looks out of place, filled with tiny, colorful squares.
Matchboxes?
Georgie sets down her binder and pencil case on the counter with a small thud, bringing my attention back to her and our conversation.
“What was your dad like, G?”
She doesn’t say anything at first, letting out a sigh before opening the fridge only to close it after a few seconds.
“The best. He was one of those dads who actually cared about the things I liked. He didn’t just pretend like my mom did.
” She opens one of the cabinets and closes it almost immediately before turning to lean over the kitchen counter, grabbing two clementines from the bowl in the center, and handing one to me.
“He would always ask me how my day was, but it didn’t feel like he was doing it because he had to,” she explains as she peels the tiny orange.
I begin to peel mine, too. “I get that. Sometimes it feels like people ask you questions because it feels like they’re supposed to.
Not because they actually care.” My mind goes to my brothers and my mom, and on the off chance that they do ask me how I’m doing or what’s new with me, they seem to stop listening if my answer goes longer than just one or two words.
Georgie nods, keeping the peel of her clementine in one piece and setting it down on the counter before she meticulously peels each of the white, stringy pieces off the fruit.
“My dad would always remember every detail. So every day, when he picked me up from school and asked about my day, he’d bring up things I told him earlier.
Ask about my friends, my teachers, my assignments.
” She makes a neat little pile of the white strings on the peel as I finish peeling mine.
I split my clementine in two, popping one half into my mouth.
“And when I didn’t want to talk,” Georgie continues as she inspects hers, making sure every string from the peel is pulled off.
“He wouldn’t make me. He’d just turn up the music and drive.
Or, if we were at home, he’d pick a record from his collection and let it play all the way through before checking on me.
He wouldn’t try to make me have a conversation with him when I didn’t feel like it. ”
I let her words sink in, listening carefully as she opens up to me, and I’m grateful for this chance to get to know her.
I had wondered why she was so interested in my record collection when she came over with Ava earlier this week, but I didn’t want to pry.
I didn’t want to ruin the small connection we were making.
But it all makes sense now, why she wanted to listen to them.
They reminded her of her dad.
“I’ve never told anyone that,” Georgie says, looking up at me as I pop the other half of my clementine into my mouth, and her face immediately twists. “Did you just eat your clementine in one bite?”
“No,” I say through my full mouth as I hold up two fingers, lightening the mood but not forgetting what she shared with me—I don’t think I ever will.
“Two?” she laughs as she finally starts peeling hers apart and popping one of the tiny crescents into her mouth. “It’s not a race.”
I swallow. “Maybe not to you, loser,” I joke, and she smiles, shaking her head at me in a way that reminds me so much of her sister—who I still haven’t heard from.
Grabbing my phone from my back pocket, I check to see if I have any messages or missed calls from her, but there’s nothing. Just a text from my uncle asking if everything’s okay. I send him a quick reply letting him know we’re all good and that I’ll explain more on Monday.
“Do you have to go?” Georgie asks, and for a heartbeat, her voice slips into something more childlike—one moment a teenager, the next, a little kid again.
“Oh, no,” I slip my phone into my back pocket. “I just wanted to make sure I didn’t miss a message from your sister.”
“When she texted me that you were picking me up, she said she had some stuff to finish up at work. I texted her when we got here, and she said she was almost done and was going to run some errands before grabbing some packing boxes for—” her voice trails off, growing unsure all of a sudden at the mention of tomorrow.
“For moving into your house,” she finishes.
The thought that she’ll have lived in three different places in the span of just over a week makes my chest hurt.
Even more so when I remember that my house won’t be the last.
Because this whole thing—me and Ava, me and Georgie—is temporary.
“How are you feeling about moving in? I know you’ve been going through a lot of changes this last week.” It’s the understatement of the century, but I find myself needing to know she’s okay with all of this.
She pops another piece of fruit into her mouth, chewing slowly before swallowing. “I feel fine. I’m excited to have more space. Ava says I get to have my own room?” Her voice gets quieter when she says that last part.
“Sure do,” I say, resting my elbows on the counter and leaning over the granite. “Own bathroom, too. The room has been empty since I moved in, besides some furniture. The walls are white and bare and ready for someone to make the space their own.”
Georgie’s eyes widen, her hand stopping mid-air, freezing just inches from her mouth. “I can decorate the walls?”
I nod. “After you pick the color for the walls.”
Her eyes widen even more, the piece of clementine between her fingers dropping to the counter. “I get to pick?”
“As long as you help me paint it,” I offer with a wink. “Deal?” I hold out my hand for her to shake.
A smile spreads across her face as if I just promised her the world.
And the way she looks at me has me wishing I could.
“Deal,” she squeals, putting her hand in mine as we shake.
“Do you guys still have a lot of packing to do?” I ask as Georgie finishes her clementine.
She shakes her head, reaching for my peel on the counter, balling it up with hers to throw away. “We were going to finish packing up her stuff tomorrow night,” she says. “After dinner at your guys’ friends’ house.” She grabs her binder and pencil case and heads over to the dining room table.
Immediately, almost instinctually, I begin looking around the apartment, planning on how I could help get some packing done for Ava before she gets home, just to lessen the load of everything she has to do.
But if I know anything about Ava, it's that she’ll want things done and packed a certain way, and I don’t want to cause her any more stress. I can’t imagine how much she’s already under.
“When she gets home, I’ll see if she wants me to stick around to help you guys finish up,” I say. “I can take some stuff over tonight, so there’s less to do on Sunday.”
Georgie looks around the apartment before sitting down at the table. “I don’t know if we’ll need it. She doesn’t have much to pack up,” she answers with a shrug of her shoulders.
“What do you mean?” I walk over to the dining table, taking a seat next to her as she opens up her binder and pulls out a mechanical pencil.
Her gaze turns back to me. “She just doesn’t have a lot of stuff, and when I asked her about it, she said something about leaving a bunch of stuff at her ex-boyfriend’s place after they broke up, and then there was the fire her friend’s crazy baby daddy started last year.
” She lets out a breath as she shakes her head.
“Honestly, I was surprised to see she didn’t, like, replace it all. ”
Questions begin circling my brain at the mention of Ava’s ex, one I haven’t heard anything about, but I try not to let it show on my face. I knew about the fire at Rumi and Ava’s house last year—I was on the scene as part of the crew that got it all under control, so I know about the damage done.
But I’m with Georgie.
Why hasn’t Ava replaced it all?
I can’t help but think there’s a lot more to the story.
My lips part to ask Georgie more, but before I can say anything, the chiming of keys cuts me off, followed by the front door opening.