“I think he’s lonely,” Paisley goes on. “He would never admit it, but I don’t think he ever really enjoyed being away from home all this time.” She blows out an audible breath, laughing slightly as she meets my eyes again. “I don’t know. Maybe not. Maybe he really is an asshole and likes his weird, sterile house.”
“Maybe,” I agree with a smile. “Or maybe you’re right, and he’s covered up all the holes in his life from missing out on important stuff by cultivating this…person he’s become. You know him better than I do.”
I hate to think she’s onto something and her brother isn’t actually so bad with all that smarmy charm and inflated confidence, but Paisley seems to agree with me, nodding to herself. She studies her manicured nails, an opalescent mermaid color, then she lifts her focus and her hands to sign. “He didn’t always care so much about what people thought about him. He didn’t care about clothes and cars and impressing people.”
“What did he care about?”
“Making me laugh,” she signs, and my heart plummets to the floor. “I remember him making funny faces. He would put me on his shoulders. Give me piggyback rides.”
“Sounds like a good brother,” I sign, which is just as well because I don’t think I’d be able to talk with how my throat feels swollen.
I imagine a teenage Camden, playing with his toddler sister, tossing her in the air, letting her tackle him, carrying her around.
Paisley flips her phone over, scrolling on it for a few seconds before showing me her screen, a photo of Camden in his college football uniform, sweaty and dirty, smiling wide and holding Paisley in one arm, his helmet dangling from his other hand.
“Cute,” I sign, and she smiles, admiring it for a while, then clicks on another picture. This one of the whole Long family, sitting on a bench at what appears to be an outdoor picnic or party. In it, Paisley is probably two or three, standing on her brother’s thighs, her hands midair like she’s about to clap. Camden’s attention is on her, smiling. A woman, who I assume is their mother, has her mouth open, laughing, head tilted back, while the man who looks like Camden but older has his head buried in the side of his wife’s neck, as if tickling her, the reason for her laughter.
I’d already tried to ease into a conversation about grief and reminding Paisley that she can talk to me about anything, but seeing this picture and the glassiness in her eyes cuts me to ribbons. I don’t know what else to do besides slide out of my seat and hug her. “I am so sorry,” I say out loud, even though she can’t hear me, but I keep saying it. “You are loved,” I tell her, squeezing her tight. “You are so loved.”
I know nothing will be able to comfort Paisley like having her parents back, though maybe being reminded of their love for her will help. I sit back down again and sign, “How about we print out those pictures and buy some frames? Keep them around where you can see.”
She nods and tells me, “I have more pictures. I downloaded them all to my phone from Dad’s after…”
“We’ll do it today,” I say and sign, determined not only to make Paisley as comfortable as possible but happy too. There are times when I find her staring off into space, and I assume she’s thinking about her mother and father. I’m sure it’ll be a long time before the weight of the loss lessons, but having physical reminders of them might help. “What else? What else will make you feel better?”
“I asked Camden for a dog, but he said no.”
I tip my head to the side. “A dog might be difficult to keep in an apartment, no matter how big it is, but… How about something smaller?”
Hours later, I’m lost in a spicyJurassic Parkfanfiction, when a monster suddenly appears.
“Nadine!”
“What the hell?” I startle as the sliding door flings open, a deep voice rumbling my name. I rip my sunglasses off my head to find all six feet and five inches of Camden Long looming over me.
“Mewhat the hell?Youwhat the hell. Why are there two animals and a shit-ton of hay in my living room?”
I pull myself up from the lounger where I’d been relaxing outside while Paisley got to know her new pets. “Is shit-ton the measurement you used on the farm in Iowa?”
“Nadine,” he warns, like a boiling pot of water. “What is in my living room?”
“Your sister said it felt lonely living here, and who am I to disagree with her? So we went over to the animal shelter and spotted those cutie pies.”
He props his hands on his hips, glaring. “Whatare they?”
“Guinea pigs. Jelly and Bean.”
“Ridiculous fucking names.” He heaves a sigh, running his fingers through his hair so it stands on end. “You had to get two?”
I lift my hands becauseof course. “They’re a bonded pair.”
“A bonded pair?”
“Can’t take one without the other, or they’ll be sad. Guinea pigs are social creatures.”
He rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes. After a beat and a breath, he flops his arms at his sides and narrows his gaze at me. “Do you know how much money you spent today?”
“Probably…” I roll my eyes up to the orange sky, doing the mental math. “A few thousand.”
