“Wait, what?”Laine pauses and stares at me, her hand suspended mid-air. She’d been reaching for one of the three metal stools under the overhang of our kitchen island when I’d walked in and told her about my mom.
“Dead,” I repeat. “A heart attack at church.”
Laine is my best friend. My roommate. One of three people who know about my childhood. The fourth person who knew is lying in a chilly morgue.
Laine sinks down onto the stool and tucks her feet on the little bar at the bottom. She chews her lower lip as she absorbs the news. She looks conflicted. If I had to guess, I’d say her conflict lies in the immediate sadness a person feels when they hear someone has died, followed by the knowledge of the kind of person the newly deceased was. Laine stops chewing her lip and asks, “How did you find out?”
I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands and start to explain. “Wilma, who according to her email signature, is the assistant to Pastor Thomas, emailed me this morning and said my mother died yesterday.” I poke at my phone screen with one fingertip and it comes to life. The background picture is a bunch of succulents. It holds no personal meaning for me; I just thought they were beautiful. “They tried calling me, but I sent the calls to voicemail. Arizona area codes.”
“Uh huh.” Laine nods once, slowly, needing no additional explanation. She’s watching me cautiously, her eyes scanning my face.
I’ve been doing the same thing to my entire body since I read the email. Where is the sadness? The grief? The feeling of loss? It’s all missing. Instead, I feel… nothing.
Laine tips her chin at the paper cup in my hand. “And you went to get coffee after you heard the news?”
Glancing down, I study my name scrawled on the cup.Lenin.They misspelled it. For everything my mother did wrong, she got one thing right: my name. I love it. I’ve never met another Lennon. I asked her about it once, and she told me she loved the Beatles and named me after her favorite Beatle. I’ve clung to that memory, because it was uncharacteristically sweet of her.
“I was in line when I saw the email.”
“Right,” Laine says slowly, the word soft and drawn out. “Is there anything you want to talk about?” Her hands gather in her lap and she hinges forward slightly at the waist, waiting for me to talk.
What is there to talk about? My mother lived, she was cruel, then she died. There is no unfinished business. No unmet desire to one day gain her approval. That ship sailed the day I walked out of the house and moved to Texas. Wait, scratch that. The ship sailed the night of my high school graduation when I tried to tell her what happened, and she called me a liar.
Eight years of hard work helped me move past all that. I can only hope handling my mom’s death doesn’t set me back to the place I was in when I left Agua Mesa. Wouldn’t that be just like my mother though? One final, great big middle finger to me on her hot trip to Hell?
I glance up into Laine’s concerned face. “I have to go back.”
“You don’thaveto. Why go back to a place that caused you so much pain?”
“You think I should skip my mother’s funeral?”
“It sounds terrible when you say it like that, but yes, that’s essentially what I’m saying.”
Being a no-show would be a thousand percent easier than going back. Forget riding into town on a white stallion, I might as well catch a ride on a black sheep. Still, I have to go. I can’t cower in another state. And I’m so ready to see Finn and Brady. My guys. My best friends, my two greatest loves.
“I’m going.” My tone is adamant.
“Do you want me to go with you?”
I smile. Laine is an amazing friend. Her generosity knows no bounds, and she would give me the shirt off her back if I needed it. But, I don’t want to bring her to the place where I grew up. We moved to Agua Mesa when I was seven, and it was a fine place to be, but it all changed the night of high school graduation. I don’t know what is waiting for me now after all this time, but too clearly, I remember how I was treated after it happened. If I wanted to, I could close my eyes and see the suspicious glances and disbelieving side-eyes. Not just me, though. Finn, too. But not Brady. Not golden-boy Brady.
“Thanks, but no. I’ll go alone. And,” I pause, getting my bearings for what I’m about to say because though I know it to be true, I can hardly believe it. “Finn and Brady will meet me there.”
“What?” Her mouth drops open, forming a perfect 'O' shape. “You called them?”
“Not yet.” I walk to the other side of the island and set down my cup. “But they’ll come. I know they will.”
“The pact?” Laine’s eyebrows are raised. When she finds confirmation in my expression, she says, “You really think it still applies?”
I nod. It definitely still applies. We made that pact the night before we all went our separate ways. Finn to California, Brady to Chicago, and me to Texas. We’d sworn up-and-down that if one of us had to go back to Agua Mesa, all of us had to go back to Agua Mesa.
Laine’s right hand lifts to her ear, where she seizes the diamond stud she wears in between two fingers and spins it. This is what she does when she has something to say, but she’s unwilling to say it.
“Just tell me, Laine.”
She gazes at me. I widen my own eyes and move my hands in a give-it-to me gesture.
She sighs, then says, “I’m afraid you’re going to get hurt.”
