Chapter 27 Kylo
Kylo
Sunday night, Audrey’s reunion weekend
Okay, so this is weird AF, but when I pull into our driveway Sunday around lunchtime, I am literally glad to be home.
For one, the farm looks like an ad for Vermont.
The big white house, the red barn, the huge stone garage that used to be the milkhouse or something.
The fields and woods. Everest’s backyard is just basic and totally cluttered with sports junk and old toys.
Their bedroom is stuffy, and the upstairs hallway smells funky.
The boys’ room reeks of who-knows-what. The whole family is, like, über cheerful and loud, and Everest and I were barely alone.
Not to make out or anything, because Everest didn’t try to kiss me again.
Which is okay, actually, because at this point, I’m pretty sure I’m not gay.
Or bi, or poly, or nonbinary. I think I’m literally just a boring straight cis white girl.
For two, I liked being at Everest’s house for maybe the first twelve hours.
But then the noise started grating, because it was, like, constant.
Winter and Aspen kept bursting in, and Mr. and Mrs. Snow have these, like, Deep Conversations that we’re all expected to weigh in on.
At first I thought it was sick that they wanted our opinions.
It got old fast, though. Cringe, too, sometimes, like when Mr. Snow asked me what I thought about Chinese tariffs.
Bruh. Really? I’m sixteen. Then Mrs. Snow went on a tear about greenhouse gases, and hello?
We know. We’re the generation who has to clean up the planet because you guys did nothing.
Then Winter, who’s six, came in to see what we were doing. At 3:00 a.m. We were, like, sleeping, little guy, okay? But he had fart jokes to tell, and Everest sat up and turned on the light and let him talk about farts for, like, an hour.
And for three . . . this is the weirdest.
When I saw Audrey at the game on Friday night, sitting there with her friends—including Mrs. Paulson from the bakery, who’s the coolest adult in town—I kind of got a different vibe from her.
Audrey seemed . . . different. Important.
The friends were all, like, kind of protective of her?
But they were all laughing and having a good time.
It was like she was Meghan Markle, and they were her besties, but they had to be on the lookout in case someone tried to, I don’t know, come for her.
For once, she wasn’t the super-anxious like me like me please like me person, or the person who’s probably gonna divorce my dad the second I leave for college, if they even make it that long.
It was like seeing her the way she maybe used to be.
Popular and secure and relaxed. Only when Uncle Stephen is around does she kind of light up.
I mean, she always had the princess elements, right?
The farm, the money, the perfect parents, the cool brother.
But as long as I’ve known her, she’s never seemed all that secure.
She always smiles and arranges stupid things like family game night, and she bakes cookies and pies and tries to get me interested in stuff I’m totally not into.
Relaxed, happy Audrey? Audrey who has real friends who come to stay with her? News to me.
It’s probably my fault, the hellacious stepdaughter.
I don’t mean to be such a bitch . . . I just turned out that way.
I bet Audrey thought she’d marry Dad, lock me in my room and then pop out four perfect kids of her own.
Instead, for whatever reason I totally didn’t want to hear about, it seems like she couldn’t have kids.
So seeing her in the stands on Friday . .
. it made me wonder. Like, who is this woman and how come I don’t know her?
And also, like, I was a little . . . low-key proud?
All these people kept going to see them and talk and even take pictures with them.
I heard some people talking about Audrey and the other friends, saying how it was nice to see that they were still so close.
Which I literally did not know. I mean, she and Ms. Francesco do things together, but not bestie-bestie stuff.
I pull up next to the big Range Rover with Connecticut plates and grab my stuff from the back seat to head inside, but Dad intercepts me at the door. “Hey, darlin’,” he says, grabbing my backpack. “Turn right around. We’re going to a craft fair.”
“Dad, no,” I say. “I have homework.” I so do not want to go to another craft fair and have people look at his cringey mugs and walk away.
“It’s gonna wait.” He smiles, but he looks sad, too. “It’s not a request, honey. We’re gonna give Audrey some time to say goodbye to her friends.” His voice catches, and he coughs, then tows me over to his truck. He gives a quick swipe to his eyes as he gets in the driver’s seat.
Something is totally up. And since communication is so not our family aura, I know I’ll have to find out for myself.
Two days later, Dad and Audrey are out together, and I get my chance to Sherlock. I bet they’ve gone to a lawyer to get the divorce rolling. I mean, they haven’t slept in the same bedroom for years (and I’m super grateful).
I start in the den, Gracie at my heels, and rummage through the desk.
My first find is life insurance—holy shit, I’m Audrey’s beneficiary, and I get a million dollars when she dies.
Total plot twist. I could go anywhere on that, travel all around the world, buy a house or whatever.
But she’s only, like, forty-five or something.
She’ll be around for at least twenty more years.
Here’s her will. God, why so complicated?
I scan through it. Looks like the farm will go to Stephen, but if she dies before I’m twenty-three, Dad and I still get to live here.
Fair. It’s not like I want to be a dairy farmer or whatever.
I wonder if my dad knows. He loves to pretend the place is his. It’s so ugh.
Still, when Audrey divorces Dad, she’ll probably change all that anyway.
I go through the other stuff . . . taxes, appliance warranties, Gracie’s vet records.
Gracie has arthritis and diabetes, which I know about, since Dad gives her a shot every morning and night.
She has cataracts. So does Mee-maw . . .
she totally overshares her health details when we FaceTime every Sunday.
(Like, do I want to know about her colonoscopy prep?
No. I do not.) Anyway, Mee-maw’s getting surgery for her eyes. I wonder if Gracie can, too.
I squat down and take Gracie’s face in my hands.
She bonded more with Audrey than with Dad and me, because I was a little shit when we first got her and let Audrey do all the hard stuff.
But Gracie loves us all. She’s a dog. That’s what dogs do—love you in spite of yourself.
She wags her tail and licks the air in front of my face. Invisible kisses, Audrey calls them.
“I love you, Gracie,” I say, and suddenly there’s a lump in my throat. Gracie’s face is getting white. She won’t be around for many more years.
I, like, remind myself I’m on a mission.
A secret is being kept from me. Divorce makes total sense.
For a second, I remember the fake dating profile I wrote for Audrey to see.
(Yeah, yeah, I’m a goblin.) It was, like, way back in the summer, and Audrey had done something that triggered me or whatever.
I can’t even remember what it was. Dad was at a mud conference (not even joking) and too boho to take his laptop with him, so I wrote the pretend profile and left it open on his computer.
Southern gentleman with Vermont heart, widower, dad of teenager, lover of creating new beginnings.
I used widower to remind Audrey she wasn’t his first love.
I did delete it the next day, though, because I felt bad.
I go to Dad’s room and find nothing other than some shrooms in a baggie and a container of gummies. So bougie, Dad, seriously. There’s a stack of cards from me. His first wedding album, barely hidden under his dress shirts. I pull that out and look through it.
Weird that pictures of my mom can still make me cry.
She looked so happy. Bet she didn’t think she’d die at thirty-one.
Mee-maw has her wedding dress saved in case I ever get married.
Seems kind of morbid . . . just another reminder that my real mom won’t be there, which means Audrey will be super extra.
Though it feels worse to go through Audrey’s stuff, I go into her room—the biggest bedroom in the house, with the deck and all.
Her antique desk sits in front of one of the windows.
Heavy rain is forecast, so bye-bye, beautiful leaves, hello six months of winter.
But when it snows, it’s literally magical.
It never snowed in Georgia. Every time it does here, I can’t get enough of it.
I put my hand on the drawer pull and look at Gracie.
“I’m not doing this to be a tool or anything,” I say.
“I just want to know what’s going on.” Gracie jumps onto Audrey’s bed and curls up, her head on the pillow.
I take a picture and send it to Audrey. I do that sometimes, throw Audrey a bone to head her off at the pass.
Plus, it makes me feel better about going through her stuff.
A second later, she sends back a heart emoji.
I feel myself smile a little. See? I’m not all bad.
I open her middle desk drawer and see pens, earbuds, a few hair elastics, thumbtacks and about eight different-colored sticky-note pads.
The top-left drawer has snarls of chargers and cords.
In the top-right drawer, there’s a pretty yellow-flowered book, boringly labeled Daily Journal.
I’ve seen her writing in it from time to time.
Guess I’m about to read all about how awful Dad and I are and how sad it makes her.