6. Theres Nothing Worse than Coffee
I pullin a deep breath and open my eyes to the ceiling. The sun is already drawing a bright line across it to the other side of the room. And I think for a second that maybe he”ll be there when I open the door. Maybe he came back while I was sleeping. Maybe he”s cooking breakfast for me the way he always did when he had the day off. I could smell the bacon even in my room, but what always got me out of bed was his green chile omelet. He”d slide it on my plate and then slide into the seat across from me, insisting I had to tell him everything that was going on. I wasn”t allowed to leave the table until I told him everything. No matter how much I stalled or tried to say it was nothing. I don”t know how he could sense when I was holding out, but he always did.
But there”s no bacon smell today. There”s no noise of cooking. He”s gone. He”s gone and neither of us said goodbye.
One year until I can sell the house. One year until I can leave Salt Lake for good this time.
Who the hell makes deals with dead people anyway? And why did it have to be this? Couldn”t I have promised to plant a tree or light a candle every day? Why do I need to prove to him how much he meant to me? Why couldn”t I have shown him while he was alive? I force out a breath and push myself out of the bed.
Like I have every morning since I came back, I pad to the kitchen as soon as I get up. The filters are in the cupboard right above the coffeemaker. I take one out and drop it into the machine. Then I fill it with a scoop of ground coffee. I want to pinch my nose shut as I do. I”ll never understand people who claim to love this smell. Once I fill the machine with water and flip the black switch that”s loose from years of use, I head out to the living room and sink onto the couch.
I want to FaceTime Em, but she started work at seven this morning. Right now, she”s probably cleaning some angry dog”s teeth or whatever menial task she”s allowed to do today. So I settle for grabbing my Kindle from the end table. I”ll be glad to start work next week. There was a time when I would have loved to read eleven books in nine days, but lots of things are different for me now.
It”s not long before the background smell of coffee becomes something even worse. I lift my nose, like I”m a bloodhound and can tell exactly what it is from the smell. When that, shockingly, doesn”t work, I walk toward the kitchen. Since Dad knocked out all the walls on the first floor, it”s essentially one space separated by a kitchen island. That”s when I see the smoke. ”Shit! No, no no, no!”
I sprint to the coffeemaker. It”s surrounded by a flood of coffee on the counter, and there are tendrils of smoke swirling up from the now charred hot plate at its base. The hot plate that should have a coffee pot sitting on it. Instead, the pot is sitting in the sink. Right where I remember setting it after I filled the coffeemaker. Fuck.
I yank the cord from the wall and take a step back. The counter is covered in coffee. The white cabinets beneath are streaked with brown, and the pool on the tile floor stretches at least two feet. I drop to the floor and sob. This is not how it”s supposed to be. I”m not supposed to be cleaning up this mess. I”m not supposed to be in this house or in this town that I always hated. The town that always hated me. I choke out a laugh as I stare at the puddle of coffee just beyond my feet. ”I can relate,” I tell it. ”I don”t know where anyone would even start trying to clean me up either.”
The mop is in the closet behind me. I don”t know how long I have before the coffee stains the cabinets and the tiles. But when I stand, I walk past the closet. I slip my shoes on and walk out the front door. I”m a block away before I realize I”m still in my pajama shorts and a faded pink cami, but I don”t have enough room in me to care about that.
I pass by an older couple walking their dog. They seem familiar, so I look at the pug and try to ignore them. ”Lily, we”re so sorry. Your dad was?—”
”I know. Thank you.” I speed up so they won”t think about saying more. Why don”t people understand I don”t want to talk about it? I want to be alone and never have to deal with memories of him, or spilled coffee, or a house that I promised my dead dad I would live in for at least a year before I sold it and moved away for good. He”s gone. I tell myself every night that he would never know. But I would know.
I loop around the block and head back toward home, keeping my head down so no one else will be tempted to say anything to me. As I get close to my street, I look up and notice the house on the corner beside Dad”s. It”s the first time I ever really looked at it.
This neighborhood is a mix of old and new homes. When I was growing up, I hated the new houses. They were built by the wealthy people who moved into what used to be a middle-class neighborhood. Since they couldn”t resist showing off their money, they”d tear down the old house and build a new one in its place. This is one of those houses. It must have been built in the ten years since I moved away. It”s modern. White and black and all kinds of angles, but it has little things that make it different from the other new houses. The roof on one section is pitched just like an older home. And it has wooden shutters. Then there”s the landscaping out front. It”s not minimalist and bare the way the other new houses are. There”s an actual garden out there. And—you have got to be kidding me. My eyes catch on a man holding a shovel.
Brant. A very shirtless Brant.
His eyes are locked on me. And I must be out of shape because suddenly this walk has my heart racing.