“Yeah, well, ours was the eyesore. A little seventies split-level. The family car was a decade old. And, yes, I said car. Singular.”
“Ah.”
“All around us, it was executive dads, and moms who stayed home during the important years. But my family? Artsy was the nicest description of us I heard. My parents were both elementary teachers, so that should give you an idea of the income divide. Anyway, when I went to college—a state school—it was like I had finally found my people. Artsy and poor.” The way she says this, it is clearly more compliment than insult. “I got a scholarship, lived in student housing, and rode my bike all over the place. Sam and I went to VCU together.”
“To study theater?”
“I was a theater major. She did art.”
“Wow. VCUarts has a great reputation.”
She considers me for a moment. “And she’s a great artist. She just…”
“I’m sorry, Rae.”
She nods. “I know.”
I grab her hand and hold it tight. “I mean that. I didn’t… When I realized it was Sam, I… Fuck. I really didn’t want to hurt you.”
“I realize that.” A long, deep sigh. “I love her as much as I love my sisters, you know? She just… I just… I lost my mom, and still I had the best family I’ve ever known. Sam really, really wasn’t lucky.”
“Well, she had you.”
“Yeah. Yeah, she still does.” After a long silence, she sniffs. “Someone’s having a campfire.”
“Smells good.”
We slip into silence.
After a few minutes, I search for something else to say that won’t hurt and land back on our previous conversation. “Where’d you live when you went to school?”
“Little place near Monument. I loved it. My favorite part of Richmond was the Fan. Still is. There’s this one street I used to ride down all the time.”
I root around in the blankets and pull out the bottle of Virginia bourbon I pilfered from the party. “Yeah? Where?”
“Grace Street.”
“No way.”
“What? Why?”
“That’s where I live.” For now.
“You’re joking.”
I hand her the bottle. She sniffs, takes a tiny sip, and passes it back to me. In the light from the moon, I can just barely make out her grimace.
“Nope.” I take a long swig, enjoying the bourbon’s smooth descent. Nothing goes better with this woodsmoke smell than whiskey. I listen to the very faint song of the season’s last crickets. “My place was abandoned when I bought it. At auction. They almost took it down.”
“You fixed it up?”
I nod.
“I always had this fantasy of living in one of those houses. Picking paint colors and finishes and making it mine.” I can hear the smile in her voice. “Like my very own Barbie Dreamhouse.”
“So, bright pink?”
“No. Although maybe a couple of interior rooms in a classy, demure pink. It was just a daydream. Like one day, I’d save up and make enough to buy a row house with my ex.” The puffed-out sound she makes isn’t exactly a laugh, but it’s not entirely sad either. Somewhere in the center of bittersweet. “Never mind.”
