Casper scoffs. “I’ve gone in on worse things.”
“We know.”
Water seeps into my shirt as I lie on my back on the unforgiving kitchen floor, my shoulder jammed against a cabinet while I inspect the water line to my dishwasher. Shit. I turned off the water main and threw down a couple towels to soak up the leak, but this place is a mess.
My phone chimes on the counter—a specific chime that only plays for one alert:Attic door open. Kelly doesn’t know I installed a security feature in her attic.
In the early days of her going through Clyde’s things, she would vanish from the world for entire weekends, drowning in her grief—dismissing calls, texts, food, and sleep. Then she’d walk into work after her days off like an empty, discarded shell of who we all knew her to be. It was bad.
I told her to let me know when she was going through his possessions, but it was always met with dead air, so I installed a device that would tell me what she wouldn’t. It’s not likeI’ve placed hidden cameras around the house—though I’m not opposed to it—I simply want to know when she’s in the attic, where she’s possibly engaging in an emotionally draining task I can conveniently assist with.
I hop off the floor and head to my closet, changing into a pair of dry jeans and a new shirt. My phone chimes again, this time with a text message from Kelly.
Kelly
What are you doing right now?
It’s her way of saying she needs help—needs me. If she calls, I’ll be there, no questions asked. A flooded kitchen and busted dishwasher can wait.
Nothing. You?
Kelly
Going through Dad’s artwork.
That’s a big deal.
I quickly tap out a reply.
On my way.
Better prepare yourself. I’m throwing a rager of a pity party right now.
I’ll pick up a keg.
She needs to get better about locking her doors; I didn’t even need to use my key. Walking through the kitchen, I tuck a fresh pack of her favorite Australian licorice in the cupboard and head for the hall when I hear the music. She’s playing his old Bob Dylan albums. The wood creaks under my weight as I climb up the attic ladder.
When I reach the top, I find her on the right side of the room, surrounded by piles of sketchbooks, framed paintings, and loose artwork. I raise an arm and brace myself against one of the ceiling trusses, then lean forward, scanning the length of the attic. It’s a large space; there’s a window at one end, but the rest is illuminated by two bare bulbs in the ceiling, each with a dangling pull cord. This is where she spends her weekends—well, Sundays and Mondays, when the shop is closed. Wonder if she’ll ever turn it into a bonus room rather than a mausoleum for his belongings.
With the music playing and her thoughts distracted, she hasn’t noticed me yet. A wave of dust motes swirls when she drops a cardboard box that readsCLOTHESon the floor and nudges it snugly beside a twin box. It appears to be a donation pile.Good start.
“Wow, Chaos.” I whistle, looking around. “Really went all out on the pity party, I see. No food . . . No drinks . . . Damn, not even a single half-deflated balloon rolling around.”
A small smile tugs her lips. She sighs with big soft eyes and tearstained cheeks, seeming totally overwhelmed but somehow still drop-dead gorgeous.
“If you’re going to mope, at least put in some effort. This is just lazy.”
Her face cracks and she chuckles, rising to her feet. I stride over, dragging her into a bear hug and breathing deep. Years ago, I frequently held her. One embrace in particular let me believe we had something more, but she was still hollow from the loss. I was just imagining what I wanted to see—convinced myself of a story that didn’t exist. The timing wasn’t right.But now . . .
“How are you doing?”
She shrugs. “I’ve separated his shirts and flannels, I’m keeping his favorites.”
“In addition to the one you’re wearing?” I comment, appreciating Clyde’s old Jimi Hendrix tee she’s sporting.
Kelly glances down and tugs the hem, holding it out in front of her. “I just wanted to wear it for a little while.”
I hold her gaze. “You wear it well.”
