Chapter 29
CHAPTER 29
R omy stood in the center of the living room, surrounded by half-opened boxes and stacks of framed photos. The house felt quieter than it ever had, the absence of Pamela’s steady presence weighing heavily on her. For the first time in years, the space was truly hers—but it didn’t feel like home. Not yet.
She picked up a photo from the pile, her parents smiling brightly in front of the lighthouse they used to visit every summer. The edges of the frame were worn, the glass slightly smudged, but the memory it held was crystal clear. Romy ran her fingers over the frame, a bittersweet smile tugging at her lips.
Setting it on the mantel, she stepped back to look at the arrangement she’d been working on. It felt off. Too crowded. She sighed and rearranged the frames again, hoping to find a balance that felt right. But the truth was, it wasn’t just the photos that felt out of place—it was her.
The silence of the house pressed in on her, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator. She hadn’t realized how much she relied on Pamela’s routines—the shuffle of her slippers on the floor, the scent of her morning tea, the gentle way she hummed to herself when she thought no one was listening. Now, without Pamela here, the house felt like an echo.
Romy glanced at her phone on the coffee table. She had been meaning to call Lucy after Pamela left, but every time she picked it up, she hesitated. What would she even say?
Sitting down on the sofa, Romy picked up the phone and stared at Lucy’s number. Her thumb hovered over the call button, her heart pounding.
“Just do it,” she muttered to herself. Before she could talk herself out of it, she pressed the button and held the phone to her ear.
It rang twice before Lucy’s voice came through, hesitant but familiar. “Hello?”
“Lucy,” Romy said, her voice steadier than she expected. “It’s me. Romy.”
“Hey, is everything all right?”
Romy exhaled, relief washing over her. “I wasn’t sure if you’d pick up.”
“Of course I would,” Lucy said quickly. “I’m glad you called. We really need to talk.”
“I know,” Romy admitted. She leaned back against the couch, her gaze drifting to the photos on the mantel. “I feel like I’ve been avoiding this for so long. I don’t want to do that anymore. I need…closure. I need to figure out how to move forward.”
Lucy’s voice was quiet but full of understanding. “I get that.”
They fell into an easy rhythm, their conversation weaving between the present and the past. Romy updated Lucy on Pamela’s condition, explaining how the facility had been a blessing in disguise.
“She’s adjusting better than I expected. The staff is wonderful, and they keep her engaged with activities, at least for now. But it’s still hard. I miss her. She still knows who I am when I visit. I’m not sure how long that will last, but I’m going to keep visiting until…well, I’m not sure.”
Lucy’s voice was gentle. “I’m glad she’s in good hands. Call me anytime if you ever need to talk about it.”
“Thanks,” Romy said, her throat tightening. She paused, then added, “And about…Jenna. I think we need to talk about what happened. About everything.”
Lucy hesitated, but only for a moment. “I think so too.”
Romy felt a flicker of hope, small but steady. “Would you be willing to come over?”
“I’d like that,” Lucy said. “When?”
“How does now sound?”
“Now works,” Lucy said. “I’ll see you soon.”
As they said their goodbyes and ended the call, Romy felt a weight lift, just slightly. The house was still quiet, the boxes still waiting to be unpacked, but for the first time, she felt like she was taking a step toward something better.
Lucy sat in her car outside Romy's house, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel. She knew how hard the next moments were going to be for both of them, but she was thrilled Romy was willing to finally talk to her.
She gathered the journals and her notes from the passenger seat and stepped out into the warm afternoon. The gravel crunched under her shoes as she approached the door. Before she could knock, Romy opened it, her expression tense but expectant.
"Come in," Romy said softly, stepping aside.
Lucy entered, taking in the half-finished state of the living room. Large plastic bins and a few boxes lined the walls, their contents spilling onto the hardwood floor. A few items had found their places—her mother's antique clock on the mantel, her father's leather armchair by the window.
"Are these from your family home? I recognize a few things. Did Pamela keep all this stuff?” Lucy asked, setting the journals down on the coffee table.
“She did. Can you imagine? We’re talking fifteen years this stuff has been sitting in the attic, waiting for my return. At least that’s how Aunt Pamela described it to me. I’m not really sure if I’m making progress or just moving stuff from one room to the other. The truth is, I feel like I've been unpacking my whole life." She gestured to the couch. "Sit. I'll make tea."
"No," Lucy said quickly. "Just…I’m fine, really, no tea."
They settled across from each other. Lucy cleared her throat. "I've been thinking about you. About us. And about Jenna."
Romy's shoulders stiffened at the name, but her face remained carefully blank. “Before you say anything, please let me explain.”
Lucy nodded. “Of course.”
“I’ve struggled with so much guilt for what happened the day Jenna drowned, my part in it that is."
“Your part in it? I don’t understand.”
Romy pulled out a small piece of paper and handed it to Lucy. The paper was soft with age, the creases worn thin from repeated folding and unfolding. Lucy recognized Jenna's handwriting immediately: Why do you have to be so mean? One of these days, your going to pay for the things you do and say.
"Oh, Romy," Lucy whispered, her throat tight. "This isn't…you can't think her drowning was your fault."
“It was my fault. I’d been so terrible to her, not just on that day, but leading up to it.”
Lucy smiled. “But, Romy, that’s how kids are. They don’t really mean the things they say and do. You have to let that go. You are not responsible for Jenna’s death.”
Romy’s eyes watered. “Not just her death, but my parents’ as well.”
Lucy couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “What are you talking about?”
Romy got up from the sofa and moved around the room, unable to stay in one place for very long.
“After Jenna died, I didn’t have one minute of peace. I had to be part of the end of year school play, and it was a big deal in town.”
Lucy nodded. “I remember everyone rehearsing for it for months but I never went to see it. I think…”
“You left right after graduation. This play took place right after that. I remember being upset that you’d left. It was like you took off your cap and gown and went right to the airport.”
Lucy smiled and shrugged. “That’s pretty much how it happened.”
“Anyway, my parents were supposed to go to a wedding, but they wanted to cancel because I had the lead in the play and they wanted to be there. They were so proud of me,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t want to be in the play or to have them see me. I was devastated over Jenna. All I wanted was to crawl in a hole and have everyone forget about me. Instead, I was dragged out in the middle of the stage for everyone to see. I hated myself and I felt like everyone else hated me too. I blamed myself for Jenna’s drowning because I embarrassed her in front of you and the other girls. I bullied her and only two weeks after she died, my parents were killed. It was the ultimate payback. I was punished for what I’d done.”
“No, Romy, you’re wrong. You had nothing to do with Jenna’s drowning. She planned it. Heaven only knows how long she’d been planning it but believe me when I tell you this. I talked to her mother. Mrs. Fletcher is the one who told me that Jenna committed suicide and it wasn’t the first time she’d tried. She didn’t get tangled up in the ropes.”
“But the way she looked at me before she went into the water…She blamed me,” Romy insisted.
“She was an angry and broken young woman. I’m telling you, it wasn’t your fault. If it was, then it was my fault, and her parents’ fault, and the teachers’ fault, and everyone who ever made her upset. Please, believe me. There was nothing any of us could have done to stop this.”
Lucy reached for one of the journals, running her fingers over the worn leather. "I went to see Mrs. Fletcher yesterday."
That cracked Romy's composure. Her eyes widened slightly, color draining from her face. "Why would you do that?"
"Because we've been hiding from this for fifteen years," Lucy said, her voice steady. "We buried it so deep we couldn't even talk about it with each other. Mrs. Fletcher told me the truth—about how Jenna died. It wasn't an accident."
"I know," Romy said, each word falling like a stone. "I've always known."
Lucy's heart stuttered. "What? How?"
Romy rose slowly, moving to the mantel where a small wooden box sat beside her parents' wedding photo. She opened it with trembling fingers and withdrew a folded piece of paper, a local newspaper article casting doubt on Jenna’s drowning as an accident. She passed the article to Lucy.
"Don't try to absolve me. I knew exactly what I was doing when I tormented her. I wanted her to hurt, and she did. I was jealous of her time with you. She was taking my best friend away from me. I wanted to hurt her. And within weeks I was the one who hurt. If that wasn’t enough, getting attacked in New York two years ago was the final message that I still hadn’t paid the price for it all.”
Shocked, Lucy asked, “What? You were attacked?”
“I was mugged, beaten pretty bad. It took me a while to heal from that, but I kept thinking that somehow, I deserved it.” She stared into Lucy’s eyes. “How many years am I going to punish myself? How can I ever see a future when I’m constantly looking at the past?”
Lucy looked at her friend, really seeing her for the first time in years. "Your parents' death was a terrible accident. It wasn't punishment. It wasn't karma."
"Wasn't it?" Romy's laugh was hollow. "One month. That's all it took. I made her feel abandoned, alone, worthless. Then I lost everything that mattered to me. An eye for an eye, Lucy. That's how it works."
"No." Lucy stood, the paper falling from her fingers. "That's how guilt works. That's how grief works when we can't make sense of it. Mrs. Fletcher—she convinced herself Jenna's death was an accident because she couldn't bear the truth. And you…you've twisted three separate tragedies into some cosmic punishment because it's easier than accepting that sometimes horrible things just happen."
"Easier?" Romy's voice cracked. "You think believing I'm responsible for three deaths is easier? Knowing my cruelty killed Jenna and my parents died because of it is easier?"
Lucy crossed the room and gripped Romy's shoulders, forcing her to meet her gaze. "Listen to me. I was there too. I saw how we treated her. We were young and stupid and mean, and we'll carry that forever. But your parents' death wasn't punishment. It wasn't God. It was a mechanical failure in an airplane, and it was devastating, and it was random. You've been carrying this impossible weight for fifteen years. It’s time to let it go.”
Tears slipped down Romy's cheeks, but her voice remained steady, almost resigned. "It's all I've known since that day. Who am I without this guilt?"
"You're my friend," Lucy said fiercely. "You're a survivor. You're someone who deserves to unpack all these boxes and make this house a home without feeling like you don't deserve it." She pulled Romy into a tight hug. "We can't change what happened to Jenna. We can't bring your parents back. But we can stop letting the past strangle our future."
Romy's arms slowly came up to return the embrace, her body shaking with silent sobs. Lucy held her, remembering all the times they'd hugged over the years—at parties, school events, graduation. This felt different. This felt like holding someone as they finally allowed themselves to break. After a bit, Lucy pulled back and looked into Romy’s eyes.
“Do you know what I really think?” Lucy whispered. “I don’t think you’re a survivor at all. I think you’re a warrior. You’ve been fighting for so long, you never stopped to notice that the war was over. It’s over now, Romy. You’re free to live in peace, to be happy. You can do that here, in Periwinkle Shores, in this beautiful home that Pamela left you with all your memories. But it’s time to make new ones, and you can start by helping me get Jenna’s voice heard. We can do it together by working on a project I think you’re going to love.”
“What? What project?”
Lucy handed Romy Jenna’s journal. “Let’s make that pot of tea, and I’ll explain everything,” Lucy answered.
Outside, the wind chimes swayed in the breeze, gentle reminders that life continued, moment by moment, whether you were ready for it or not.