Chapter 12
HATTIE
I watch the trail of dust kick up behind Dad’s truck as he pulls away from the ranch. Once things quieted down after opening presents with our extended family this morning, and the house emptied, it was time for him to take a drive—the same one he takes every year on Christmas.
We used to visit the graveside together, and sometimes I feel bad about not wanting to tag along. But I think he understands that I just don’t have the emotional bandwidth to go right now.
I can’t speak for him, but personally, I don’t struggle with grief as much on days like today. It doesn’t make sense because missing your loved ones should hurt the most during the holidays when you’re supposed to be together.
For me, the ordinary moments on days when nothing’s special hit me harder.
Halfway through a trip to the grocery store, my brain will glitch and remind me that I can’t call my mom to ask whether I should use salted or unsalted butter for her baked rice recipe.
When she passed unexpectedly, I was so young.
I never had a chance to learn things like that from her.
Skipping the deli section is a given, too.
A sub sandwich was the last thing my brother had for lunch on the day he passed.
Those moments feel like fresh cuts. I much prefer expecting the sting. The wounds have a chance to scab over when I’m sitting with happy memories in my childhood home, knowing full well that Mom and Jay will cross my mind. It’s a quieter, more manageable pain when you know it’s coming.
When Dad’s truck finally disappears out of sight, I turn away from the big window in the living room and flop onto the leather couch.
It’s gloomy out, which is perfect for leaving all the lights off in the house and letting the tree cast a warm glow over the room.
I pull a blanket over my lap and curl up with my phone.
Earlier this morning, Mesa texted me, but I didn’t have a chance to reply until now.
I swipe to my messages app and wish her a Merry Christmas.
Right away, she sends a picture of herself standing next to a brand-new compact utility tractor.
There’s a massive red bow on the seat, and she’s beaming from ear to ear.
I’m smiling at my screen when the notification bar pops up with a text from Marcus. I don’t really want to click on it, but I hate having unread notifications, so I open the message.
Marcus
Have a great Christmas! :)
“Oh, for the love of god,” I mutter to myself.
I’m grateful that he and his cousin, who I think lives in California, have an annual holiday golf outing. If he were here, I’d be faking sickness and locking myself in my room for the entire day.
Seeing his text reminds me that I have yet to stumble upon any revolutionary information while researching him or the financial world in general this week.
Once things get back into their normal routine after Christmas, I am going to have to step it up a notch and find something that will actually help me figure out what to do.
If I don’t find anything by the end of next week, Plan C will have to go into full effect: Telling someone who can help me.
Maybe that should have been Plan A.
The bridge of my nose stings as I look around the room. If my mom were here, she’d know what to do. She was tough and level-headed. If I had turned out more like her, I wouldn’t find myself in impossible situations like this.
With a sigh, I exit the message app. I’d like to call Dad to find out if he’s making it okay on his drive. My thumb hovers over his name on the recent calls list, but I don’t want to bother him.
I’m not in the mood for mindless doom scrolling at the moment, so I lay my phone down and reach into my bag of chocolate-covered pretzels. After popping one into my mouth, my phone dings.
A dangerous, irrational hope pops into my head the moment I hear the sound. I freeze, willing the thought to go away, but it’s like quicksand. The more I fight it, the more it drags me under.
Maybe the notification is a message from Heston.
It slipped through the cracks of my consciousness like it was on a mission to grab my attention, whether I meant to think it or not. In any case, it doesn’t even matter.
Heston’s name can’t show up on my phone. I never unblocked him after we broke up.
On impulse, I grab the phone. In a matter of seconds, I open the settings, unblock his number, and throw it right back down on the blanket.