Yeah. No. Absolutely not.
I slip my feet into pink fur-lined slippers, fall back onto the sofa, and find the local sushi restaurant’s menu on my phone. At least good food is still an option tonight.
I’ll take my wins where I can.
The menu looks promising, but as I’m adding my picks to the cart, it dawns on me that Jesse will probably be hungry when he gets home. In the following moment of weakness, or kindness, or whatever you want to call my soft spot for Fia, I add a few different dishes to the cart for him and hope he likes something I selected. I add a noodle dish for Fia and her inevitable late-night cravings, too.
It’s a peace offering. A fresh start.
With a few hours to kill before I have to pick up dinner, I decide to check my emails.
I skim the reply from my attorney, and my stomach flips.
It’s confirmation of what I’ve been dreading—I need Danny to sign off on the sale.
In eleven days, I have to be in Raleigh to shoot a wedding, and my calendar is fully booked through January, giving me no time to come back to see Danny. But Fia only has three months before the baby arrives, meaning time is of the essence—I don’t have the luxury of debating this for another day.
I type a response back to the attorney without hesitation:Please draft the letter.
If I were home in the city, I’d have an endless supply of things to do, but here, I feel like I’m twiddling my thumbs, waiting for my enemy to return, so I attempt to do something productive.
I take stock of what’s in the house.
Within minutes, I’m engulfed instuff, because it’s no exaggeration when I say every nook and cranny of this century-old house is full. I open the cabinet under the steps and am met with clear plastic bins labeledEaster decor,and behind them is a bin labeledart projects, third grade.Mythird-grade art projects. A lump forms in my throat as I stare at the accumulation. It’s too much. I shut the door, having to lean my body into it to get it to click shut.
Partially, this feels like my fault.
When Nan died two years ago, I didn’t want to throw everything out or sell it right away. Fia was commuting from the houseto college, and she insisted on staying here. I thought moving out would be more change than she could handle, and I didn’t want to push her. I was just happy she was keeping up with school and work. But as months passed, life got back to normal for me—busy. I was booking more destination weddings than ever, and it was easy to push the idea of cleaning out Nan’s house from my mind.
But now I can see that this isn’t something we can put off forever. I also can’t do this without my siblings’ support.
“Fuck this,” I mutter, walking away, and flick on the TV, killing the next hour.
When it’s finally time to put my coat on and walk out the door, the picture of Nan near the back door gives me pause. I bring my fingers to her face, touching the glass.
“I really hope I’m doing right by you, Nan.”
I take the long route to the restaurant, through neighborhood streets. I drive past Magnolia Street Park, my old high school, and without even realizing it, Jesse’s old house. My chest squeezes as I halt at the stop sign and glance at the small white house with a sagging front porch. It looks like it should be condemned by the city, but to be fair, it didn’t look that different when we were kids.
I don’t know if Jesse ever contacted his family again, after everything. A knot forms in my stomach when I remember how he’d come to school with bruises. But then headlights approach behind me, and I hit the gas, moving along, willing the memories away.
Hoping my pump-up playlist can drown out my impending thoughts about Jesse, I crank the music in my car. Because how am I supposed to spend three hours alone with anex-boyfriend-turned-roommate? Where’s the manual for that, because I’d love to know.
What should I ask him first, “How was prison?” or “Do you remember when I went down on you in the back of the car after prom?”
Like I said, it’s complicated.
But not for Fia.
It’s black and white for her—she was only eleven when he and Danny were sentenced. Nan protected her from a lot of the gritty truth. She was heartbroken the only way an eleven-year-old could be, she missed her annoying older “brothers.” Then I left, too. Now she’s got me and Jesse back for a bit.
I can’t entirely blame the kid for being hopeful.
Jesse’s black car sits in the driveway when I return from the restaurant, and a loud groan rips through me. But I catch myself.
Nope.I promised Fia I’d try.
I can be sunshine.
