Chapter 54
Katie
It took nearly two hours to get home, and we didn’t talk much the way there. After all, what was there to say? It wasn’t until
the train was fast approaching our station—as the sugar maples and drooping power lines and run-of-the-mill, just-like-mine
homes with blue-gray siding were rushing by—that Tyler finally spoke.
“When was the last time you were here?”
“I haven’t been back,” I said. “Not since we moved.”
Tyler nodded. He’d been holding my hand for most of the ride, but his grip loosened for a split second. At once, he recovered
with a squeeze, but I saw the knot in his throat. “Well, I’m happy to report it’s still a shithole. You haven’t missed much.”
I laughed, calming my racing pulse, scooting out of my seat after him as the train slowed. And then the doors slid open, and
I jolted at the scent of it.
Bluegrass.
Gasoline.
High, thick summer.
Tyler squeezed my hand again, then helped me onto the platform and down the stairs.
Our westward walk into downtown—so foreign, so familiar.
I took it all in: The auto repair shops.
The clearly not-long-for-this-world gastropub on that corner where no business had ever survived six months.
The local bank that’d been converted—as cheaply as possible, I was sure—into a medical spa with three misplaced apostrophes on its sidewalk sign alone.
“Is your mom still here?” I asked. I’d sort of just spat out the question. But it was too much, standing with our fingers
intertwined on the corner of Atlantic Avenue, having no idea where he called home.
“She lost the house when I was a sophomore in college. She’s in Florida now, with her sister. I try to go down around Christmas
if the tickets aren’t too bad.”
I nodded, remembering the curve of our street, the glow of our porches, the measly fence separating our side yards. At Tyler’s
place, the grass was always dying, and nobody was ever home. For years, my mom had offered to list their house—to not even
take a commission. Surely, an apartment would be better. Cheaper, easier to maintain. But Marcy wouldn’t do it, my mother
would say. Marcy was hanging on to what was left of the fairy tale Tom was never going to give her.
We were both quiet for a minute. Just shifting in our sneakers on the hot, cracked concrete. And then, finally, Tyler adjusted
his ball cap and handed me a little sheet of paper.
“What’s this?” I said, unfolding it.
“Our itinerary,” he said. “It’s pretty full, I . . .”
My eyes welled as Tyler’s handwriting came into focus.
11 am: Meatball subs for breakfast at Ino’s.
11:20 am–1 pm: Sit at Starbucks and complain about shithole town, purchase nothing.
1 pm–2 pm: See if anyone we know is working at yogurt shop. Get free yogurt. Talk about Ingrid.
2 pm–5 pm: Sneak into movie theater.
5 pm–6 pm: Eat as much pizza as humanly possible. Extra ranch. Remember hot sauce packets. Donatella’s because Ino’s has the
bad pepperoni now.
7 pm–10 pm: Mets game on radio, read Baseball Prospectus aloud. Bring Entenmann’s chocolate chip loaf cake, candle.
“You do this?” I said. “Every year?”
“Every year,” he said.
“Wow.”
He shrugged, then reached for my hand and dragged me into the deli, asking me if I still liked the caprese but with no onions,
warning me that the fountain soda still hadn’t been fixed. That I should get my own bag of chips if I wanted any, that he
remained constitutionally incapable of sharing his.
“You’re not all bad,” I said as he filled out the little order sheet, rambling about yellow pepperoncini, pulling me under
his arm.
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
And then, despite everything, I kissed him.