Winnie Dust and Memories #2
"So were you. And you lost your grandmother. And then you lost us too."
The way he said it—like he understood the weight of that double abandonment—made something crack open in my chest.
"I was mad at y'all for a long time," I admitted, still not looking at him.
"Mad that you didn't come back, didn't call, didn't even send a card.
Pops tried to explain that adults have complicated reasons for things, but I was twelve and angry and I just..
. I felt abandoned. First my bio parents, then Nana, then the one friend who understood what it was like to be the weird kid who didn't quite fit in anywhere. "
"You weren't weird."
"I was the Black kid being raised by white grandparents on a ranch in Oklahoma. I was definitely weird."
"You were cool. You knew how to do everything—ride horses, fix fences, catch frogs. I thought you were the coolest person I’d ever met."
I finally looked at him, and his expression was so earnest, so genuinely regretful, that I had to look away again before I did something stupid like cry in front of him.
"Well, you left," I said, trying to keep my voice light. "And I got over it. Moved on. Had to."
"But you didn't really. Get over it, I mean."
"What makes you say that?"
"Because you've been treating me like I'm that same kid who left for the past week and a half. Like you're waiting for me to disappoint you again. Like you're bracing for impact."
Fuck. He wasn't wrong.
"Maybe I am," I said quietly. "Maybe I'm just protecting myself from caring about someone who's gonna leave anyway."
"What if I don't leave?"
"You will. End of summer, you're gone. Back to Dallas, back to your real life. That's the deal."
"What if I changed the deal?"
I laughed, but it came out bitter. "You can't change the deal, Beau.
That's not how this works. You're here because your daddy made you come, because you fucked up in Dallas and this is your punishment.
The second you're allowed to go back, you will, because why would you stay? There's nothing here for you."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it? You miss your parties, your friends, your lifestyle. This is just a summer vacation with chores."
"Is that really what you think?"
"That's what I know."
We stared at each other across the dusty attic, both of us sweating and covered in grime, and something hung in the air between us that I couldn't quite name. Wasn't ready to name.
"You're wrong," he said finally. "But I get why you'd think that. I haven't given you much reason to believe otherwise."
"No, you haven't."
"Then I'll work on that."
Before I could respond—before I could figure out what the hell that meant—he turned back to the boxes, effectively ending the conversation.
We worked in silence for another hour, sorting through decades of accumulated memories.
I found Nana’s quilting supplies and couldn't bring myself to donate them, even though I’d never learned to quilt.
Found old Christmas decorations that made my throat tight.
Found a box of my baby clothes that Nana had saved, complete with the hospital bracelet from when I’d been left on their porch.
"Naomie," Beau read, picking up the tiny plastic band. "Right. Sometimes I forget that's your real name."
"Winnie’s just a nickname. Nana started calling me that when I was little—said I 'won' their hearts the moment they saw me."
"That’s really sweet."
"Yeah. She was good at that. Making people feel wanted."
We’d filled the truck bed twice with donation items by the time we finally made it to the last corner of the attic, where a dusty sheet covered something large and rectangular. I pulled the sheet off, and felt my breath catch for the second time that day.
It was Nana’s vanity. The one she’d sat at every morning, braiding her hair and humming old country songs. The one I’d watched her use a thousand times, memorizing the way she’d smile at her reflection, the way her hands would move through the familiar motions.
"I didn't know this was up here," I said quietly.
"It’s beautiful," Beau said, running his hand along the carved wood. "Your Pops must've moved it up here after..."
"Yeah. Probably couldn't stand to see it empty."
The mirror was cloudy with dust, and when I looked into it, I saw a ghost of Nana behind my own reflection. Her smile, her hands on my shoulders, her voice saying you're gonna be just fine, Winnie girl.
I’d been twelve when she died. Almost twenty-four now, and I still wasn't sure if I was fine.
"You keeping it?" Beau asked.
"Yeah. I think I'll put it in my room." I wiped the dust off the mirror with my thumb, and the motion cleared enough to see just my reflection now. "She’d want someone to use it. Not just sit up here collecting dust."
"Need help getting it downstairs?"
"Yeah, that’d be nice."
We maneuvered the vanity down the narrow attic stairs with significant effort, several curses, and a few near-death experiences, finally getting it into my room and positioned by the window where it caught the afternoon light perfectly.
"Perfect," I said, stepping back to admire it. "That’s perfect."
"It suits you," Beau said, leaning in the doorway, wiping sweat from his forehead. "The whole vintage cowgirl aesthetic."
"I don't have an aesthetic. I just live here."
"Living somewhere creates an aesthetic."
"That’s the dumbest thing you've said all day, and you've said a lot of dumb things."
He grinned. "It’s a gift."
I looked at the vanity again, at the way the wood glowed in the sunlight, and felt something settle in my chest. Like a piece of Nana had come back down from the attic where it didn't belong and returned to the land of the living where it did.
"Thank you," I said quietly. "For helping with all this. I know it was boring as hell."
"It wasn't boring. It was..." He paused, searching for words. "It was important. Getting to see where you came from, who you were before. It helped me understand you better."
"I’m not that complicated."
"You absolutely are. But that’s not a bad thing."
We stood there in my room, covered in dust and sweat, and I looked at this man who’d been a boy I knew a lifetime ago.
He looked different now—taller, broader, more solid.
But his eyes were the same. That same earnest blue that had followed me around the ranch twelve years ago, asking questions about everything.
Maybe he really had come back. Maybe he’d been trying to come back this whole time, and I’d been too busy protecting myself to see it.
"Come on," I said, breaking the moment before it could become something I wasn't ready for. "We’re both disgusting and it’s almost dinner time. Go shower before Pops makes you sit on the porch."
"That happened one time!"
"You smelled like you’d died. He was being generous letting you on the porch."
"I had fallen in the manure pile! It was an accident!"
"Exactly. Shower. Now."
He laughed and headed to his room, and I stood there alone with Nana’s vanity, the photo album still in my hands.
I opened it one more time, looking at that last picture. At twelve-year-old me and twelve-year-old Beau, both smiling like we had all the time in the world.
We hadn't known that summer would be our last. Hadn't known that everything was about to change. But maybe that was okay. Maybe not knowing was what made those summers magic—we just lived them, fully and completely, without worrying about what came next.
Maybe I could do that again. Just for one summer. Just to see what happened.
I set the album on the vanity, right where Nana used to keep her hairbrush, and headed for my own shower.
Tomorrow, I’d wake up at 5:30, do the morning chores, teach Beau something new he’d probably fuck up at first but eventually get right.
And maybe—just maybe—I’d stop waiting for him to leave and start letting him stay.
Even if it was just for the summer.
Even if it ended the way everything else did.
At least this time, I’d know it was coming.