“I’m volunteering with you because you need help, and I walked inside,” I said, counting each answer with my fingers.
“Those are half answers at best.”
Her shoulder brushed mine as she reached for the dry-erase marker, then wrote the date on the board in cursive. A smile tugged on my lips despite the severity of the situation. Only Kirawould write in beautiful cursive for a group of children who wouldn’t appreciate it.
Marker in hand, she asked tightly, “Why did you really come home?”
“My mom asked me to.”
Kira laughed, but there was nothing sweet to the sound. “So, what, if I ever wanted you to come home, all I had to do wasask?”
No matter where I went or how many people I met, Kira was the one constant in my life. The person who my brain resorted to remembering when I was stressed or sad. The one who taunted my dreams. The one who my brain created fake scenarios around when I couldn’t sleep, like I was a ten-year-old girl playing with Barbies.
If I had ever thought she wanted me with her, nothing could have kept me away.
“Did you ever want me to come home?”
She froze. “Maybe, until I realized that would be a bad idea.”
I bit the inside of my cheek and looked away. A stack of paper sat on the desk.
“Do you need me to pass those out?” I asked, nodding toward the sheets.
“Yes, thanks.” Kira capped her pen and stepped aside, watching casually as I dropped a sheet in front of each flimsy plastic seat. “How’d you end up in this volunteer role, anyway?”
I exhaled, knowing I couldn’t spin this into something noble. “To address the elephant in the room—yeah, I saw you coming here. I needed to talk to you. Just once. When Mary assumed I was here to volunteer…” I gave a sheepish shrug. “Couldn’t say no.”
“Well, you’re very good at not saying anything,” she muttered under her breath.
I felt a flicker of old frustration, maybe even hurt. I’d pouredmy heart into a letter years ago. One she never answered. Excuse me for not wanting to try again.
Silence stretched between us, thick and familiar. I glanced at the wall clock. The minute hand ticked so slowly, like it was mocking me. Any second now, a herd of sugar-rushed children would storm the room with glitter and pipe cleaners.
I half expected Kira to say something to cut the tension. She always did. She had this guilt reflex, like her sass came with a built-in apology timer. I used to joke that she had a lifetime supply of sass passes and still only used one a week.
“Mason must be elated that you’re home,” she said, eyes darting toward the check-in sheet on the desk.
She doesn’t know.
The numbness hit first. It always did. Like my body had rehearsed this moment, this sentence, this tone.
I leaned against the edge of the desk, the cold metal pressing into my palms. The surface was cluttered with mismatched supplies, including purple gel pens, safety scissors, and a stack of faded volunteer badges. “Dad died two years ago.”
Kira froze. “Oh my God.” Her voice cracked with the kind of shock that couldn’t be faked. “Why didn’t you tell—” She stopped herself. “I’m so sorry, Landon. Mason was a good man.”
I swallowed hard, the words tasting bitter. “Yeah. The best.”
Her eyes searched mine, quietly bracing for more.
“How…” she started but didn’t finish.
“It was the cancer.”
Kira had been there for the diagnosis and early stages.
“He fought it for a long time.”
Kira nodded sympathetically. “He was always a fighter. I remember he used to show up to the diner every day, even when the chemo made him so tired he had to sit down every five minutes.”
