23. Mine #3
Bea’s eyes are the color of weak tea. She isn’t smiling or frowning, she’s just here, in her chair at her house, holding space for me to put something down that I’ve been carrying for years.
“It was screaming, just go. Just. Go.”
Bea pats my hand, but I hardly feel it. What the fuck am I doing? And why can’t I stop?
“When she died.” The words tumble out like a dam blown wide open.
“What I felt—under everything else—was relief. Because she wasn’t in pain anymore.
Because I didn’t have to be the outlet for her pain anymore.
Because she couldn’t say horrible things to me anymore.
Because I was so tired of hiding and I wanted to know what it felt like not to hide.
And I thought—I thought if she died, all of that would go away.
My anger. The fights. The bills. The fear. The hurt. The embarrassment.”
“And did it?”
A tear slips down my cheek, and I angrily swipe it away. I’ve shed these tears. I’m not about to do it again.
“For about a week,” I say. “Then it came back in a different color, and I…held on to it.”
Bea nods as though she understands, but she doesn’t. What kind of person feels only relief when their mother dies?
“I’ve never said that out loud,” I say.
“I had a feeling.”
“Not to Nolan. Not to anyone. Not even—”
“Not even?” she gently pushes.
“Not even myself,” I say.
“Relief and grief aren’t opposites, Juniper.
They’re roommates. They share a bathroom.
They take turns. You’re not a monster for feeling both.
You were a child doing the work of an adult for years, and your body registers the end of that work the way bodies do.
Grief doesn’t come with an etiquette manual.
Not for you, not for anyone. But I can tell you, I don’t think you were alone in that shame spiral. ”
I frown at her.
“Nolan told me you might end up here, and he said it was okay to tell you that he too sought me out his first summer visit here after your mother passed away.”
“But Nolan’s not a monster.” Fuck. I didn’t mean to say that.
Bea’s eyes soften at the corners, her wrinkles more prominent when she’s not peeling back the layers I keep hidden. “Neither are you, Juniper.”
“It feels like a monster-type of thing.”
“That I can understand.”
“If anyone knew—”
“Who would you tell?” Bea’s eyeing me curiously. Does she expect me to tell Cole just because we had sex once?
“No one.” The bite in my tone is uncalled for, even I know it.
“You will, eventually,” she says. “The right person. When it’s…safe.”
“I don’t…this doesn’t even have anything to do with Grace. I don’t know why I said all that.”
“You’d be surprised, Juniper, by how our minds categorize pain.” I stare at her like she has sixteen heads. “Wounds of a different flavor can still produce the sweetest cake when baked properly.”
I don’t answer. I don’t know what to do with her question or her confirmation that my brother has been tracking me from six thousand miles away, or her weird wound analogies.
I just know that her question about me throwing things away has been a thorn in my side for weeks, and now I’m unmoored by my inability to throw spite at Grace the way she deserves.
We don’t speak until her alarm goes off.
“Time’s up.”
My jaw drops. Was she charging me this entire time?
“Dinner.” She smirks. “Time to get my chicken breast in the sauté pan.”
“Oh.” I jump to my feet. “Right. I’ll just—” My legs are wobbly as I stumble down her stairs.
“You know where to find me, Juniper.”
I wave over my shoulder, not caring if it’s rude. I just need to get back to my apartment.
By the time I’m standing in front of my closet, I’m so over silence that I want to scream simply to fill the void, and my closet offers no advice.
I’ve only filled half of the space, and now we’re well into July and I have nothing to wear. One side is full of sweatshirts, and the other side is what I packed on impulse the night before Fen and Hudson drove me south.
Somewhere in the back of this closet is a dress in a color between moss and sage that’s made of the softest cotton with beautiful gold buttons down the front.
The tags are still on it because I don’t even remember buying it.
But I do know I was pissed off at myself when I shoved it into my suitcase, reprimanding myself because Cole Whittaker didn’t deserve to see me in a dress.
I packed it anyway.
Past me knew something.
Pushing aside my hoodies, I drag out the offending dress, then rip the tags off with my teeth and slip it over my head. Then I curse myself while drying and styling my hair—something Cole has probably only ever seen in person a handful of times.
I straighten my shoulders in the mirror.
The girl staring back at me in a pretty green dress in a garage apartment that has started, without my permission, to feel like somewhere I belong is… a glimmer of someone I might like. Someone I could respect. Someone who might deserve the happiness she’s watched others find.
It’s everything I never thought I could have.
“For now,” I tell her.
She doesn’t believe me either. But I put on my shoes and pretend anyway.