“I like it.”
George has been the only maternal figure I’ve known and though, legally, she’s been my mother-in-law for years, a new rush of warmth runs through me.
I pad across the tiles to Wes and wrap my arms around his waist, planting my chin on his shoulder. “I also like the smell of whatever you’re making.”
“Nothing special. It’s sauce from a jar, but adding a little something extra, and there’s garlic bread. I wish I was a bettercook; I feel like the first meal in our house should be better than this.”
“It’s perfect.” I shake my head, and he shifts to catch my mouth. Slow and soft. Unhurried. I wish the rest of our lives could be like this. Here. Without worrying about flight schedules and mic checks.
We only stop kissing when the pasta water boils over and hisses against the hot stove. But then we kiss some more. That night we eat overcooked pasta and burnt garlic bread.
Still, it’s everything I could have wanted. Messy and entirely ours.
We spend the next day at George’s, watching old home videos from the camcorder Evelyn used to record band practice with. I told Kendal I would hunt down the old footage for her to use, and it’s nice watching it back, seated between Wes and George on the living room couch.
“Oh my gosh, we look so young,” I say as a clip of Wes and me hunching over a notebook comes into frame. Our faces are softer, eyes wider. It was before I knew much about makeup, so my face is nearly bare except for a touch of mascara.
“And we thought we were so grown up too,” Wes adds.
It’s true. We thought we knew everything. That after a few years in the same old dive bar, we had a grasp on everything the world had to offer.
Maybe, if we’re lucky, that’s still true. Even though I feel like I’ve lived so many lives, there’s still more out there to experience.
“I remember how you were the last one to grow any facial hair but shaved every day. I’d come to Nashville for our breakfasts, and you’d have all these nick marks on your face,” George says.
“Mom,” Wes whines. George reaches for his face, and he has to hop off the couch to get out of range. “You guys keep watching. There’s still more dishes left from dinner.”
“Don’t touch the seasoning on my cast iron!” George calls out.
“I messed it up one time.”
“Once was enough. It’s never been the same.”
I watch him over my shoulder as he disappears into the kitchen. “He always has to find a way to be useful, doesn’t he?
George rises and busies herself with fixing the fire. “I think it helps him feel in control. I always know something is on his mind when he comes back. He stayed for a week when you started dating that director. Acted like everything was right with the world, but I found him mucking stalls until his hands blistered,” she explains. The fire starts to catch, casting a warm glow on her age softened features. “He’s always been great at helping with our problems while pretending he has none of his own. Like his are less important.”
“I know what you mean. Over the last few months, he’s really helped me find myself again. I don’t think it would have worked if anyone else tried to be there for me. He just knew what to do.” My throat tightens as I’m hit with a wave of guilt, thinking of how even though he’s always been there for me I’ve failed to do the same for him. “You know he goes to therapy now? He didn’t start for himself. He wanted to do it so he could be a better person for us. But I think it’s really good for him.”
“That’s a relief to hear.” She nods. “You two were always at your best when you were together.” The fire snaps and sputters out. “Shoot!” George rocks back on her heels. “Avery, can you grab one of those old newspapers on the bookshelf? They’re right on top.”
George rearranges the wood, and I do as I’m told, grabbing a few of the papers for good measure. When I look down, I’m face-to-face with his name over and over again.
Hudson Sloane.
I run my finger over the spines of cracked paperbacks and glossy hardcovers. Fifteen in all, the last one published three months after he passed. I was living with Ivy and Nolan then. I walked to a bookstore after school and saw it on display. I stood there looking, wanting to go in until I caught the bookseller peering at me like I was getting ready to steal from the place.
George’s voice startles me back to the present. “Did you find it?”
I hand her the paper, which she crumples into balls. “I was just looking at the books. You know, I haven’t read any of them.”
“Yes!” she cheers, the flames catching the dry wood. George climbs to her feet and walks past me back toward the shelf. Her eyes run over the books, stopping at one in the middle. “This one was his favorite. I don’t think it’s his best, but it always had a special place in his heart.” Using her index finger she slides the book free.
A Vaster Fateis written in raised serif letters at the top. The image is a cup tipped over, the water pouring from it turning into an ocean.
“He wrote it right after your mother left you with him. He’d call and tell me all about you and how scared he was to be your dad because he knew how special you were. It took him about five years to finish it, but he was so proud when he did. He couldn’t wait for me to read it.”
“I can’t take this. I’ll buy a new one.”
