35. Nate
Nate
“Rory is coming home.” My heart leaps in my chest.
She’s coming home.
Ollie, perched on the passenger seat, does a remarkable job of hiding his feelings on the situation, but I have enough emotion for both of us.
Excitement and nerves and hope and joy and so many more, all wrapped up in one package. Because I can’t believe how lucky I am to have my girl back. And I can’t face the thought of her leaving again.
Ollie was in his usual good mood when I picked him up from Lawton’s, and now he’s sitting in the front seat, his tongue hanging out as we drive the few blocks home.
I’m not sure if he understands me or not, but he seems pleased. Ollie and Rory formed a bond, mostly based on the excessive number of treats she fed him.
It feels right to have all of us back under one roof.
Even Spam, although I think I’ve bonded with that little guy lately.
It’s been less than twenty-four hours since I was here picking up some things before Rory and I headed to Vail, but when I walk through the door, it doesn’t seem like enough somehow.
The dust by the floorboards, the pair of shoes haphazardly tossed by the closet but not inside, the chewed dog toy in the center of the hallway.
This isn’t what Rory deserves.
And I know she won’t care. If anything, she prefers the cozy chaos to sterile luxury. But that doesn’t mean I can’t spruce up the place for her.
I spend the next two hours—three?—vacuuming in a frenzy and dusting every possible surface.
“How do you make so much hair?” I ask Ollie, who innocently chews his Nylabone.
Seriously, it’s everywhere.
Once the living room and kitchen are cleaner than I’ve ever seen them, I head upstairs, the vacuum in tow. After I strip the sheets off my bed and toss them in the washer, I give the carpets of both bedrooms a once-over.
I even dig out an old candle from the back of the pantry. Mom used to have a candle lit at all times, and she left a lot of them behind when she moved.
I give it a sniff. Kind of woodsy, like pine or something. Not too overpowering. I light the wick and set it on the counter.
Turning in a slow circle, I take in the house, at least as far as I can see from here. Every inch is clean, new, ready.
It’s like a blank slate. Rory and I aren’t exactly starting over, but we’re moving on from the past. From any of the expectations, the secrets, everything that tried to keep us apart.
Starting fresh, just the two of us.
And the dogs, obviously.
I drum my fingers on the countertop. When did she say she’d be over here?
I’m not sure she did, exactly. I’d kind of hoped she was going to pack up her things, jump in her car, and be back here, but that’s probably not realistic.
Allie is probably at their house, and I’m sure she wants to see how her mom is doing before she leaves again.
My fingers itch to pick up the phone to see how things are going, to ask when she’ll be here.
But at the same time, a wash of calm settles over me.
It doesn’t matter when Rory gets here because we have the rest of our lives. She’ll come.
And then she’ll come.
I snicker at my inner joke, glad no one is around to judge the adolescent humor that sometimes sneaks out.
Yeah, Rory’s going to come. Over and over. Tonight, and as often as possible for the rest of our lives.
The sun is sinking toward the horizon, and I’m getting antsy.
Correction. I’ve been antsy.
Now I’m worried.
It’s been at least four hours since I dropped her off at her parents’ house. Again, there’s no rush, but there’s…something. It’s the tiniest fragment of a thought that niggles at the back of my brain, wondering if something’s wrong.
Don’t do it, Nate. Don’t be the needy guy.
I showed Rory how good it can be with the alpha male, the one who takes charge and lets her mind go blank while he takes care of everything.
Checking up on her every few minutes would ruin that image.
So I continue to pace, back and forth, waiting patiently.
Then I pace less patiently, a bottle of IPA in my hand.
When Ollie heads to the door and sits patiently, I realize it’s 10:00 p.m. She’s not coming over tonight.
I let Ollie outside to do his business, then he heads for his crate to go to sleep.
My mind won’t shut off. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Finally, at eleven, I send a text message.
Rory
Everything okay? Let me know if I can help. Love you, babe.
The answer comes back just as I’m finally drifting off to sleep.
I’m sorry I can’t make it over there tonight. I’ll talk to you in the morning, okay?
I love you, too.
I somehow manage to fall into a fitful sleep, reassured by her message that she loves me, but anxious about what’s keeping her.
We’re okay. Right?
The morning sun wakes me from a dream, one where Rory and I were camping in the mountains. I’ve never been much for backpacking, and I don’t think Rory is, either, but the dream makes me wonder if we should consider adding it to our bucket list, at the very least.
I rub my eyes as I reach for my phone on the bedside table. I didn’t hear any notifications come across, but I pick it up anyway, only to find no new messages.
Something stirs in my gut. It’s not the same sense of foreboding I had when Rory was in a car accident, or even the strange sensation that I sometimes get when a storm is about to blow in.
It’s something else.
I run a hand over my face and look at my phone again. It’s 6:30—too early to call Rory, or to call anyone, really.
And if she needs me, I want to be ready to be there for her.
So I drag myself out of bed and down a cup of coffee before I take the world’s fastest shower.
At 6:47, I’m on the couch, fully dressed, and nursing a second mug of coffee.
I give it until 8:00. That’s late enough that most people have started their day, so I figure it’s an okay time to reach out.
Rory
Just checking in, hope everything is okay. Love you.
Rory’s reply comes back after only a few minutes.
I’ll be over soon. Love you.
I look at Ollie. “See? She’s coming over soon. Everything is okay.”
I’m not sure if I’m trying to reassure him or myself.
Either way, I assume it will be more than just a few minutes before she shows up. I settle in to wait patiently.
But less than fifteen minutes have passed when Ollie sits up straight, ears perked, looking at the door, and a knock sounds.
I scramble to my feet, needing her in my house, in my arms.
But nothing could have prepared me for what I see when I open the door.
Spam jumps out of Rory’s arms and dashes inside the house, distracting me for a split second, but when I look back at Rory, my stomach drops.
Her eyes are red-rimmed, tears running down her cheeks.
“Rory.” I step toward her, arms wide, and she falls into them, burying her face against my chest.
Her fists ball in my shirt, holding on for dear life as her body shakes with sobs. “It’s Mom.”
My heart stops, an ache blooming in my chest as I realize what she’s saying. I hold her tighter, letting her cry. She can take as long as she needs.
“I’ve got you, babe,” I murmur in her ear. “I’m here. We’re going to get through this.”
The next few weeks pass in a blur of funeral arrangements and all manner of logistical things that you never think to plan for until you’re there.
Canceling memberships and magazines and upcoming appointments that are no longer needed.
Life insurance, death certificates, picking out an outfit for the funeral—not just for the attendees, but for Rory’s mom.
Peppered through all of it is grief, with its unpredictable schedule. The smallest thing can trigger a memory and that wave of sadness and loss.
Today has been a good day for Rory, at least so far. She’s been going to the barn here and there, Allie still helping out with the chores while she uses up the vacation days she’s stockpiled over the years so Rory can just come when she needs to.
I wonder if she may head over there today, if she still feels up to it.
“How’s it going up there?” I call.
Rory is up in our bedroom, tackling the bag of clothes that’s remained packed since she moved back in.
There’s no answer.
I make eye contact with Ollie, who tilts his head in that direction, like he knows something.
Maybe he does. I’ve learned to trust his intuition, so I head up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time.
As I near the top, I hear what Ollie must have heard from farther way.
Soft crying, with the occasional sniffle.
Not the all-out sobbing that’s gotten less frequent over the time since Cathy died, but it’s obvious that there are tears.
I push open the door from where it’s cracked.
Rory sits on the edge of the bed, a piece of paper clutched in her hand. She wipes her nose and sniffs as another tear runs down her cheek.
“What’s that?” I cross the room and sit next to her.
She holds out the paper. “I found this in my bag. It’s from Mom.”
I take it from her and scan the note. It’s short, but its words mean everything.
Rory,
Thank you for giving me the thing I wanted most in the world—to see you happy. I’m so proud of you, Bumblebee, and am so proud to be your mother. I’m sorry I won’t be there for your wedding day or to see my grandchildren, but know that I’ll be looking down on you and cheering you on.
You’re going to do great at this thing called life. You always have.
Seeing you with Nate has been one of my greatest joys—the way your face lights up and your smile radiates tells me everything I need to know.
It’s the same way I’ve always looked at Dad.
Watching you head off with him tonight—you’re on your way to Vail as I’m writing this—I know that you’ll take care of one another, and that I don’t need to worry.
Keep on forging your own path, and know that you deserve every happiness this world has to offer.
Love you always, Bumblebee,
Mom
Tears spring to my eyes, too.
Cathy gave me her blessing months ago, when I needed help convincing Rory to give me another chance, and I think it was her words that made Rory agree to those dates in the first place.
But seeing it written out like this, knowing that Cathy died seeing Rory happy and approving of Rory and me together, means more than I imagined.
A sharp yip catches my attention, and Rory and I both laugh through our tears as we look down at Spam.
“This isn’t for you,” I tell him, holding the paper out of reach. “What do you want to do with this, babe? We should keep it somewhere special.”
Rory wipes her eyes. “Let’s put it in a frame. I don’t think Spam can chew through that. I’m not ready to see it every day. But…maybe one day we can put it on the wall. For now, I’ll keep it safe in the drawer.”
I nod, squeezing her hand, and hand the letter back to her. “Let me know when you’re done reading it.”
I keep my arm around her shoulders as Rory reads the note over and over, her finger tracing the letters.
They’re not her mother’s last words technically, but finding them after she’s been gone a few weeks makes it feel that way.
Even Spam seems to grasp how important this is. He curls into a ball on the floor and rests quietly while Rory and I sit together with her mother’s blessing between us.