Chapter 15
Fifteen
“Another photo in the mail?”
It happened in the middle of a mindless Thursday morning, halfway between my third coffee refill and another ferry operations crisis—courtesy of Tom. He was one of the good ones, despite his complete absent-mindedness and lack of organization skills.
Suddenly, my phone lit up with Adam’s name, buzzing so hard it almost fell off my desk.
“Jesus, Adam!” I answered, trying to keep my voice low in the semi-professional chaos of Tommo’s open office.
“The asshole made it!” he shouted down the line, triumphant.
I blinked. “What?”
“Stanford, loser! Your favorite brother just became a future dropout at a school that costs more than Dad’s entire house! Thank god we’re poor and you work at a little above minimum wage, because this family’s future chemical engineer got a full stipend!”
I laughed so loudly that Kevin the Cactus nearly vibrated off my desk.
“Adam, that’s amazing!” I said. “I’m so proud of you!”
“You better be. You’re buying me dinner. Steak. Champagne. The original one, not the American sparkling shit from Costco.”
“Done. As long as I get to eat too.”
He snorted. “Come home early, all right? Dad’s pulling out the sad little grill he thinks makes him a pitmaster.
Invited Hannah and his buddies from RCAF.
I’m inviting, like, three people. And…” he paused dramatically, “you have to come because I’ll die otherwise. Not sure Stanford accepts corpses.”
I laughed, my heart unexpectedly happy. Family. Messy, irritating, irreplaceable family.
“Alright, alright. I’m there.”
After we hung up, still grinning like a maniac, I sent Mia a short message.
Me:
Family emergency party.
Beers, burgers and greasy wings: my kiddo brother got into Stanford. You in?
Her answer came two seconds later:
Mia:
Give me five to arrange a nanny for Talia.
Also, if you don’t save me a cheeseburger, we’re through.
And then… him. I stared at Paul’s number and knew I didn’t have to invite him. We weren’t… that. But it felt wrong not to. It felt wrong if he didn’t get a chance to be there, celebrating this messy, silly, wonderful part of my real life. Heart hammering in my chest, I finally typed:
Me:
Small family celebration for my brother tonight. Smartass got into Stanford.
Burgers and questionable grilled food. Would love for you to join. No pressure.
And sent it before I could overthink, and threw myself into emails and managing Tom’s crises.
The backyard was a mess of folding chairs, tiki lights Adam had probably stolen from someone’s backyard, and the rich smell of burgers sizzling on a cracked old grill Dad had resurrected from the garage.
Adam, shirt half-untucked, flipped burgers with a flair that suggested he had watched exactly one YouTube tutorial and declared himself a chef.
“You’re going to kill us all, ever heard about salmonella?” I asked, snagging a soda from the cooler.
“Death by grilled meat,” he said proudly. “Way better than dying from boredom here. Seriously, sis, love you, but I’m done with Nanaimo.”
Dad grunted, pretending not to listen from the porch where he nursed a beer and read the local paper like a man determined to ignore modern life. Mia arrived a little later, balancing a six-pack of beer and a tray of homemade cupcakes.
“My contribution to chaos,” she said, dropping a kiss on my cheek. “And congratulations, Stanford Sibling.”
Adam bowed theatrically. “Finally, one adult who respects my genius.”
“Or your ability to watch a few TikToks on ‘how to get into Stanford,’” Mia quipped.
We ate and laughed and mocked Adam until the sun sank low and the sky turned that deep blueberry blue that only happens in late summer. It was warm, chaotic, and it was home.
But even as I laughed with Adam and toasted his future questionable life choices, there was a small, sharp emptiness inside me: Paul had never texted back.
Later, when most of the chaos had faded into fireflies and cigarette smoke, Mia nudged me with her elbow as we sat on the patio steps.
“You okay?” she asked, handing me another beer.
“Yeah,” I said too quickly. Then added, softer, “Yeah. Just… wish he was here.”
Mia sipped her drink, studying me in that calm, perceptive way she always had.
“You invited him?”
I nodded. She raised an eyebrow. “What’s up with him?”
“His mom. She’s sick, and he needed to talk to her.”
Mia hummed, noncommittal. I looked at her sharply because Mia rarely deviated from giving her take on life. “What?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Just… make sure you’re not always the one waiting, okay?”
“Oh no, I’m not, it’s nothing like that, first time I invited him anywhere close to this havoc and first time he hasn’t replied,” which was mostly true, lately.
She smiled, softer now. “I’m happy for you, Alicia. Really. You deserve someone who sees all of this.” She gestured vaguely at the messy yard, the burned burgers, and the bad jokes. “And still wants in.”
My throat tightened unexpectedly. “He does,” I said, half-defensive. “He just… he has stuff.”
“Everyone has stuff,” Mia said quietly. “Love’s not about the perfect timing, but showing up anyway.”
I gulped down what was left of the beer and didn’t answer. We sat there for a while longer, watching Adam try to light sparklers with a blowtorch, unsuccessfully, and so unapologetically himself.
Later that night, after the last cupcakes and burgers were eaten and Dad declared bedtime with a dramatic yawn, I found another envelope waiting by the doorstep.
No stamp. Just my name, written in careful block letters, with another photo inside. Me, grinning inside a tiny cockpit, headset too big for my head, sun spilling across my wavy hair.
My heart squeezed painfully. No note. No explanation again. Just the airfield, glider, and free skies.
“Hey,” I said casually to Adam when I found him rummaging in the fridge for leftover burgers and ketchup.
“Yeah?”
“You didn’t happen to find… like… another photo today, in the mailbox, perhaps?”
He blinked, mouth full of bread. “Again? No. Weird.”
Too fast. Too casual. I squinted at him. “Adam. Seriously. Is it Dad?”
He shrugged. “He’s too much into his own little world to make that kind of effort. Must be some other friendly ghost.”
I narrowed my eyes but let it go for now, but I felt I was getting close to solving the random photo mystery.
That night, curled into the softness of my bed, with the soft summer air drifting through my window, I sent one last text.
Me:
Wish you were here.
He didn’t answer right away, and I almost fell asleep waiting.
Paul?:
Wish I was too, girl.
No “sorry”, no “I miss you,” no late-night teasing, but I believed him.
Because that’s what you do when you trust someone with your heart.