Taking a deep breath, I push the door open, the room greeting me like an old friend. It’s exactly how I left it—the same pale blue color as the door on every wall, along with posters of punk bands I haven’t listened to in years. I walk over to an old, white desk on the left side of the room. There areseveral old sketchbooks stacked on top that I am scared to look through, not knowing the gut-wretching drawings of memories that they might contain. Lightly running a finger along the covers, I make my way to the dresser in the far corner. There are several photos taped to the mirror above it. A photobooth strip of Liv and I making funny faces, I think from seventh grade. A photo of all three of my brothers picking me up horizontally. It must’ve been the Christmas before Mom passed. She wasn’t feeling well but hadn’t gotten the diagnosis yet. We were doing everything possible to make her laugh and feel better during the holidays, not knowing it would be the last one we had with her.
I grab the last photo off the mirror. It’s a silhouette of a boy in front of a lake during a sunset with the most beautiful pinks, oranges, blues and purples I had ever seen painting the sky. I remember taking the picture and saving it, knowing it was something I wanted to paint eventually.
The boy in the photo is Alexander Cruz.
I set it down on the dresser as a knot forms in my gut, moving along the rest of the room to hopefully distract myself.
Portraits of Mom in different mediums adorn the walls: charcoal, graphite, oil pastels, watercolors, acrylic and oil paints. She was so beautiful that I used her as my muse any chance I got. The greatest compliment I’ve ever received is that I look exactly like her. I don’t see it, but it’s nice to hear.
I walk over to the bed and it’s still covered in the quilt Mom made me when I was ten years old. The blue and purple colors have faded, but the memories are as vivid as ever. As I sit down and run my hand over the fabric and stitching, I can almost feel her hands guiding mine as she taught me how to sew. Mom’s voice was always gentle and patient, always the calm in the storm.
She’s been gone for so long, but in this room, it feels likeshe’s still here. If I just remember hard enough, I can hear the sound of her voice and laugh. But it’s not enough. She’s still out of reach.
A knock on the door pulls me from my thoughts and I look up to see Cam leaning against the doorframe. He must’ve stopped by on the way to the restaurant. His expression is clear as mud, but I know him well enough to still recognize the concern behind his eyes.
“I went to check on you at the yellow house but you weren’t there. Figured I’d find you here,” Cam says softly.
I try for a smile, but it doesn’t quite land. “Guess I couldn’t stay away from this room forever.”
He steps inside, sitting next me on the bed. “You never really dealt with it, did you?”
I don’t pretend to misunderstand him. He’s referring to the all-consuming grief. It was easier to run from it, or bury it under a new life in a different city. But now, sitting here surrounded by the remnants of the past, I realize how much of it I never let myself actually process.
I shake my head. “No, I didn’t.”
Cam exhales, nodding slowly. “I don’t think any of us truly did, to be honest. We just kinda… kept going.”
A tear slips down my cheek but I wipe it away quickly, hoping he doesn’t notice. “I miss her, Cam.”
His hand lands on my shoulder, grounding me just enough. “Me too, Em.”
The weight of everything presses down on me, but before I can drown in it, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and see a text from Liv.
Liv
Meet me at the bakery. I’m sure you could use some sugar and caffeine.
I look at Cam, who gives me a knowing look. “C’mon, I’ll give you a ride,” he says. “We can talk more later.”
I nod, standing up and taking one last glance around the room before heading downstairs with him.
10
EMMA
The cold air nips at my cheeks as I step out of Cam’s car onto Main Street. I told him to drop me off at the start of the street so I could walk the way to the bakery and get some fresh air. Pulling my jacket tighter around my body, I start to regret the decision.
A long, green banner is hung up from one side of the street to the other, readingCelebrate the 75th Windhaven Fall Apple Festival. There is an eerie silence that comes before the storm of the festival. The whole town is prepping for it and the influx of tourists that the next couple weeks bring.
Mom used to love the festival, it was her favorite time of year. She would sell authentic Cuban tamales at a small booth. They would sell out within the first hour of opening day, but she would still make us all stay the entire day to support other local businesses and friends in town.
For now, the streets are quiet, save for the occasional car passing by or the chatter of people ducking into shops. I forgot how peaceful it is here. It’s different from the constant humming noise of the city I’ve grown accustomed to. It’s daunting to be in such a quiet place, alone with nothing but mythoughts and the feeling of impending doom as I walk along the cobblestone path.
Paper Trails, the town bookstore, comes into view first. Its deep green awning is somewhat frayed at the edges, the way it always has been. Through the large glass windows, I see the same overstuffed, robin egg colored armchairs and loveseats, the same towering wooden shelves filled to the brim with books, both new and old. My body subconsciously stops right in front of the door, but I fight the urge to go in. A flood of memories hit me instead. Alex and I tucked away in the back corner. That was our spot, surrounded by the smell of books and the soft rustle of pages. He would ask me to read to him, and listened to every word out of my mouth like his life depended on it.
It was there, one quiet evening, I found myself entirely consumed with him.
I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was the way the fading sunlight hit his face perfectly, or the way he had just made me laugh after a particularly rough day of grief. My back was pressed against a shelf. Alex was standing inches away from me, one hand leaning against the shelf behind me, as our eyes locked. We both wanted it to happen, but for a couple seconds neither one of us moved. I finally leaned in first. Alex didn’t pull away. His other hand hesitated before tilting my chin up further. His lips met mine, and for a moment, the world didn’t feel so heavy. The kiss was soft and warm, and everything I didn’t realize I needed until it was happening. I convinced myself it hadn’t meant anything, that it had just been two teenagers caught up in a moment.
