"Because I know what it sounds like when you're in the middle of a storm and you can't see the hand in front of your face. And I know you're in that storm now. It's different than mine but it's still a god-awful storm. I know it and I know you, and I know you'll make it through."
I drew in a long, shuddering breath and decided I didn't care if I walked onto this plane with tears all over my face. I just didn't care. I was sad and lonely, and lost in a world where I used to know my place, my spot. My feet hurt and I knew I wasn't going to sleep tonight, and I wanted to call Linden and ask him why he didn't ask me to stay but I wouldn't. Icouldn't.
"I love you, Mom."
"Love you too, honey. Call me tomorrow?"
"I will." I handed the gate agent my boarding pass and proceeded down the jetway. "Thanks for listening."
"Thanks for talking," she said pointedly.
I sighed. "I know I've been bad about—"
"Let's stop beating ourselves up tonight, okay? You've been doing what you needed to do and you don't owe me an explanation. Go easy on yourself. You deserve it."
"Good night, Mom."
"Good night, Jasper."
When I made my way to my seat, I grabbed a notebook from my bag along with the flannel shirt I'd nabbed from Linden the other day because I was mad at him and wanted him to think of me every time he went looking for it. I draped the shirt over my shoulders like a shawl and flipped to a fresh page in my book.
I stared at it, pen poised over the paper, for a ridiculously long time. Long enough that I had to stow it in the seat-back pocket during takeoff and wait until the plane leveled off to return it to my lap. I stared at it through the beverage service and through half a bag of Cheez-Its, and then I wrote:The Person I Want to Be Now.
30
Linden
There wassomething about the sun on crisp November mornings. It cut through the clouds at harsh angles and pierced the thick fog in a way that made those lazy billows glow. Mornings like these made me feel quiet yet very much alive.
Maybe it had nothing to do with November or glowy fog but everything to do with a long night spent celebrating the safe arrival of my new nephews. Add in the stress of driving my sister to the hospital in rush hour while she whisper-screamed at her husband to get the hell home as rapidly as he could manage and the past eighteen hours were some of the craziest of my life.
It didn't end at getting her to the hospital—and then collecting Rob from the airport because an hour-long flight bested a nearly four-hour train ride in this situation. It was then, after Rob and Magnolia were reunited but before the babies arrived, that my sister remembered we'd forgotten her Boston terrier back at my parents' house. Since my father was within twenty minutes of the city—he'd been golfing with his phone off and last to hear the news—I volunteered to drive back to New Bedford, fetch the dog called Rob Gronkowski, and ferry him back to Boston where he'd spend the next few days with Ash and Zelda before meeting his little brothers.
That was Magnolia's expression, not mine.
Once Zelda and I had the pup situated, we got word the babies had arrived and all involved were healthy. The hospital kicked everyone out—including my mother, who'd pulled herself out of the scatterbrained spiral just in time—and my father decided this called for a celebratory dinner. That led to a great deal of confusion since my parents were at the hospital, Ash was at the office, and Zelda and I were at their apartment.
I'd call it a clusterfuck but the entire day had been a clusterfuck of proportions I'd never imagined.
Eventually, we circled up at a steakhouse my parents favored. There was champagne, probably more than made sense for the occasion but that didn't slow anyone down. There was steak, a perfectly reasonable amount for any occasion. And there were stories. So many stories. The day Ash, Magnolia, and I were born. The day our parents took us home. The day we wouldn't stop crying, not a single one of us, and the day Ash and I crawled under the living room sofa and stayed dead silent while our mother went nuts trying to find us.
It was a night well spent but there wasn't a single minute where Jasper's absence didn't stab at my sides. Where I didn't have to choke down the desire to turn to her, reach for her, whisper something private into her honeyed hair.
I wanted to share this with her. I wanted to fill her champagne flute again and again and tell stories with her. I wanted to pass out in Ash's guest room with her in my arms. I didn't want to do this or anything else alone. I wanted her here and I knew that made me a greedy bastard but I couldn't help it. I'd tried. I'd tried since sending her on her way to California but I couldn't do it anymore.
The only thing I wanted to do—aside from chasing away this throbby champagne headache—was feel sorry for myself. It was a selfish answer to a selfish problem but I didn't care. I'd shower and dress, chug some coffee and feed myself anything but toast, and slog through my day with all the self-pity I wanted.
It seemed only fair, considering Jasper was long gone. I hadn't heard from her in—well, I wasn't sure how long it had been since the days were a blur of babies and dogs and strange dreams but it was long enough to know she'd moved on. I was sure of it.
Except—
I came to a hard stop in the middle of my street, right where the dogleg bend opened up to reveal the pair of cottages at the end of the cul-de-sac and Jasper's old station wagon parked at a drunken angle in the driveway.
I stared at it for a long moment, blinking to make sure I wasn't hallucinating from the hangover, the adrenaline, the terrible nights of sleep I'd managed since letting her go. I blinked again and no, no, I was not hallucinating. Yet I didn't trust any of this. There were plenty of reasons for her to be here. It meant nothing. It couldn't.
I told myself this but I parked in my driveway and marched straight into her yard, not stopping for anything.
The front door stood open and I glanced inside. She'd abandoned her shoes and carry-on bag in the entryway. I decided that meant nothing. Same with the vague thumping I heard coming from the direction of the back bedroom. She could be packing the last of her things or knocking down a wall, or anything in between. That was how Jasper operated.
