Pops isn’t one to get rid of much. When Grams was alive, she’d sneak things out to the trash, only to have him bring it back in, wondering why she was throwing away a perfectly good toaster—never mind that it hadn’t worked since ‘98. He always said he could fix it but never had the time.
There could be anything in these boxes, and now’s the perfect time to figure out which boxes are junk that can be tossed while he’s not here to stop me and which are full of memories worth saving.
I start with a shoebox labeledmiscellaneous. On top are crinkled receipts so faded the ink’s gone, which immediately get thrown out. The bottom is nothing but loose screws, nuts, and bolts—those get unceremoniously dumped too.
One box down, twelve to go.
The next one is full of Grams’ old clothes. For a moment, I swear I can still smell her perfume. I close my eyes against the wave of nostalgia and push it into the donation pile.
Box three is stuffed to the brim with blankets. I’m about to shove it into the donation pile when something familiar catches my eye. I pull out the muted pink fabric and run my fingers along the design embroidered on the corner—Piglet, with my name neatly stitched underneath in dark pink thread.
My baby blanket.
Grams made it for me, and I dragged it everywhere until one summer I forgot to pack it to take home. I’d been in tears when I couldn’t find it, but eventually I’d forgotten all about it. Seeing it now makes tears stingthe backs of my eyes. My fingers brush over the frayed edges, the material so thin and worn it’s basically falling apart, but it’s one of the few pieces of Grams I have left. I fold it up and lay it gently on the bed.
The rest of the boxes turn up photo albums, trophies Wes and I won at the county fair, even a pair of bowling shoes. Seeing as Cottonwood Creek’s bowling alley shut down over a decade ago, it’s safe to say that these have been out of commission for a long time.
My phone rings, and I dig through the accumulating piles until I find it. Sawyer’s name flashes on the screen, and my stomach dips—afraid something’s happened to Pops.
“Hello?” I answer, breathless.
“Hey, do you have any plans for tomorrow?”
I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Pops is still in the hospital, and I’m jobless,” I remind her.
“Right. So, you down for a little road trip?”
“Where are we going?”
“There’s a place in North Platte with a few horses that need some TLC—and maybe a whole lot of training. Before I take them on, I want to make sure they don’t have any major health issues. Think you can play vet for me?”
“Sure,” I say, my voice sounding a little too chipper, even to me. “I’d love to help out.”
I’m eager to get out of the house. It doesn’t feel right without Pops in it, and after going through all these boxes and throwing out the junk that Pops refused to, I definitely could use some fresh air and company other than the squirrel I’m pretty sure resides in Pops’ attic.
“Perfect. I’ll pick you up at six.”
“See you then.”
I hang up and glance around at the chaos covering the floor. Guess I’d better get my shit together if I want any shot at sleep tonight. I peer into the box labeledChristmas Decorationsand sigh heavily as I pull out a Ziploc bag full of old McDonald’s Monopoly game pieces and another full of individual ketchup packets.
For the love of everything holy, Pops.
The ‘90s country hits are drowned out by ungodly squealing, and I shrink down into the seat when Sawyer shoots daggers my way after an especially intense noise.
“Thank you for bringing him with us. I swear I’ll make it up to you.”
“I don’t think my ears will ever recover from this. It’s worse than Wes’ singing.”
That makes me snort, since my brother sang so out of tune in the shower growing up it was impossible to tell what song he was actually singing.
The pig takes up its high-pitched squall again, which makes Sawyer mumble some choice curse words under her breath.
“If that thing upsets my horses, I’m going to make it into bacon myself.”
The squealing ratchets up a notch, and the crate jostles in the back seat. “She didn’t mean it, Winston.”
