Stalking past him, I huff, “I did not make up that it was pink. I did not make that up.” I stalk right into the foyer, where the path has been gradually widened (mostly thanks to him, I’ll admit, since I’ve been preoccupied with expanding my wardrobe on the lawn), hoist a broken microwave into my arms, and stalk right back out.
Wesley shakes his head. Mutters something.
I ignore him, and it’s empowering.We don’t have to be friends. We’re only going to be living together, not like that means anything. We don’t have to be friends.
Wesley’s muttering grows loud enough to form a distinguishable word. “Stop.”
I do stop, but only because he’s caught me by surprise. “What?”
He glares. Thrusts a... helmet? At me?
“Uhhh...” I look up at him, and he looks away, like he can’t bear to make eye contact with me. From his perspective, I’m the usurper of a dream come true, a bigger inconvenience than all the water damage, broken windows, and split floorboards combined.“I don’t have a bike.” Maybe there’s one in the house. You know, I’m not giving Violet enough credit here. There’s got to be at least ten bikes in that house.
“If you’re going to be in there”—he points to the house, eyebrows clinching together, jaw hard—“you need protection. It’s dangerous.”
“You’renot wearing a helmet.”
He glares some more. Throws a shattered vanity mirror into the dumpster with unnecessary force, which might not have been intended as a threat but is for sure being interpreted as one.
“Fine, fine.” I hold my hands up. Strap the helmet on. And I think: it really is a shame that we don’t have to be friends.
Chapter 6
FOR SOMEONE WHO HATEShaving me around, Wesley sure loves getting in my way.
It’s April sixth and I’m exhausted, heartstrings stretched until I’ve lost all emotional elasticity from the highs and lows of discovery and loss as I clear out Falling Stars. I am a sparking, smoking jumble of raw wires.
But I still haven’t cried.
Why haven’t I cried? I won’t feel like I deserve this gift from my aunt until I’ve grieved the way a loved one is supposed to grieve.
So this is what it’s come to: me sitting cross-legged in a circle of Hannobar mementos, immersing myself in Aunt Violet–ness, begging my heart to pick up any station other than the numb detachment I’ve been tuned in to.
Wesley’s footsteps are getting stompier. I can tell he wants to sayDo you have to sit right THERE, but he swallows the words. He presses his lips together to keep them from falling out as he gruntsand sighs from heavy lifting, dismantling the living room furniture around me.
Idohave to sit right here, in point of fact. This is the part of the house where I feel closest to Violet. My favorite hours on this earth were all spent in this living room, side by side with her, chatting about anything and everything. Violet was one of a kind. She didn’t talk down to me, but she also didn’t treat me like I was a grown adult. Mom went back and forth between extremes: one minute she’d snap at me that I needed to do whatever she said because I was a little kid who didn’t know anything; the next minute she’d tell me too many details about one of her dates and if I made a face, I’d hearOh, grow up.
“Oh, Violet,” I say mournfully, since maybe a theatrical performance will bring the tears. “I wish I’d been able to say goodbye.”
I can’t help a glance at Wesley, whose expression is incredulous until he realizes I’m watching him. Then it smooths over, impassive. He’s judging me.
“I wanted to call,” I sniff. “It’s complicated.”
He says nothing. He gives up on trying to remove an unmovable floor-to-ceiling wardrobe that has stubbornly decided to fuse to the wall. It’s an antique, white with a long oval mirror on the front. He shoots the bulky piece of furniture a glare and I have to admire its tenacity for winning that battle.
Wesley crouches in front of a table, beginning to do something to it with a screwdriver. I’d help, but 1) I don’t think he wants me to, and 2) my back, legs, and arms are jelly from lifting and carrying so much junk these past few days. I’m used to hard work, but clearing out a house as big as this is a merciless beast. And we’ve only got about 3 percent of it cleared away. I’m so daunted by allwe have left to do that I wouldn’t mind screaming into a decorative pillow if they weren’t all so musty. However, I am a Maybell Parrish, and Maybell Parrishes do not give up.
I’m sorting through papers, which are a rabbit hole of Victor and Violet Hannobar history. Deeds and documents, court papers and letters. So many letters.
My mouth curves into a smile when I select one, skimming the top line. It’s so old that the paper is nearly transparent. When I hold it up I can see the writing on the back bleed through the front, rendering it all illegible.
“Did she tell you about how she and Victor got together?” I ask casually.
No response.
I glance up to make sure he hasn’t left the room, which he hasn’t. I frown, lowering the paper. “Are you going to ignore me forever?”
Sweat rolls from his hairline, down his forehead. His gaze lifts briefly to mine, impatient and piercing, before he continues focusing on his task.
