“You can clean up your room,” Em said.
“Sure.” I helped myself to more mashed potatoes. And corn. And biscuits. I was back in Kansas, after all.
I needed to clear space in my room anyway. I couldn’t write my dissertation on the kitchen table where Em rolled out piecrust and paid the bills and my sister and I had done our homework. Though I could count on Em and Henry not to say much.
That night as I was getting ready for bed, my phone dinged. A reply from Reeti. And—my breath hiccupped—a message from Tim.
We didn’t have a chance for a proper good-bye. Good luck with everything. Let me know how you get on with your story. xx
No abbreviations, no emojis. Like getting a text from Fitzwilliam Darcy. With kisses.
My heart cramped. I sank onto the single bed, my hand curled around my phone.Thnx.I paused. Added a kissy face and deleted it. A red heart, also deleted. Crap, this was hard.
And I heard Tim’s deep, well-mannered voice: “It’s better if you leave now. Before this gets any harder.”
I drew a painful breath and typed.Maybe it’s better if we don’t message. At least not for a little while. x
Three dots appeared.
Please, please, please.The silly prayer wobbled like the dots on the screen. But what was I praying for?
Of course. I’m sorry. xx
I didn’t realize I was crying until a fat drop plopped on the screen. Was he apologizing for texting? Or for sending me away?
I wiped my eyes. I deserved someone who chose me. Who wanted to be with me.
“Too much,” Tim whispered in my head.
I didn’t fall asleep for a long time.
—
Over the next month, I fell into a kind of routine, familiar but different, like my aunt, like the farmhouse. I collected eggs and weeded the vegetable patch, took lunch to Henry and the farmhands, went to the grocery store for Em, the hardware store for Henry, and the library to say hi to old friends (books and librarians).
In the mornings and late into the night I wrote, propped on my old twin mattress or sitting at the kitchen table after Em and Henry had gone to bed. I didn’t have to finish an entire manuscript to meet my thesis requirements, but the story itself drew me. Compelled me. I checked in regularly with Reeti and Toni by text, less frequently with Sam and Maeve by email. And when my eyes bleared and the words wouldn’t come, I tackled the piles of moving boxes in my room.
Cleaning was mindless, dirty, satisfying work. I swept the Kansas dust from every corner, scrubbed the baseboards and windowsills, took down my teenage posters of Pink and Middle Earth on the walls. Maybe, I thought, I’d paint. When the book was done.
“Not bad,” Em said when she came to inspect my progress.
I stretched my aching back. “Cleaning therapy.”
“Hm.” Another of those assessing looks. “Out with the old, in with the new.”
“Not much new,” I said ruefully. I’d given away most of the furniture from my old apartment or returned it to the curb where I’d found it, recycling for a new generation of graduate students. But I’d picked up a desk and a lamp at the Methodist Thrift Store and replaced the limp ruffled curtains with crisp modern blinds.
“You always did travel light,” Em said unexpectedly. “Because of Judy. Your mother.”
I looked at her, startled.
Her worn hand smoothed the blue gingham comforter on my bed. “I wanted you to feel at home here. But you always acted like you weren’t going to stay. Like you were afraid to make a space for yourself. To take up room.”
My pulse beat in my throat.Don’t make a mess. Don’t make a fuss. Don’t leave so much as a toothbrush behind, and maybe you can stay.Oh God. I closed my eyes. Was that what I’d done with Tim?
“Your sister, now...” Em said.
I opened my eyes. Summoned a smile. “I can go through her things for you.”
