Watching the pale pink cover the old color is oddly soothing. We work in silence, until Mom drags an old radio out of the hall closet and plugs it into the wall. The song playing isn’t one I recognize, but Mom hums along. It’s more static than music, but that pairs well with the glide of paint.
It takes us two hours to get a first coat on and clean up. Mom makes dinner while I take a shower.
I’ve only taken one bite of my pasta when she tells me, “I boxed up Skylar’s room.”
I freeze mid-chew. Force myself to swallow.
“You were right; this house holds a lot of hard memories. Neither of them is coming back.”
“Iknow that.”
“I’m sorry it took me so long, honey.”
“Don’t … don’tapologize.”
She doesn’t have anything to apologize for, least of all grieving.
We eat in silence for a few minutes.
“Do you have plans tonight?”
“Wade wanted to do a bonfire. But if you want to do more painting, I can?—”
“No, no. Go have fun with your friends. I’m wiped.”
I nod, polishing off the rest of my dinner. I help load the dishwasher, pull on a hoodie, and head out to my truck. Gus is waiting, sitting onthe tailgate.
“Why are your hands … pink?” he asks as I start the engine.
I scrubbed at them in the shower, but some of the streaks wouldn’t come off.
“My mom is painting her bedroom. I assisted.”
“That’s cool,” Gus says, leaning forward to flip on the radio and then slouching back against the seat. “FYI … Wade invited everyone.”
“Yeah. I saw he texted the whole group.”
“Not just our group. Everyone … from work.”
This time, I understand his meaning.
“Whatever,” I say dismissively, taking the next left. “Want to go fishing in the morning?”
“Hell yeah. Off the breakwater?”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“I’ve got bait from last summer stashed in the garage freezer. My mom’s been begging me to get rid of it. Remind me to grab it.”
“What kind?” I ask as I park.
“I dunno,” Gus replies, hopping out. “Worms probably?”
I shut my truck door, stuffing my hands in the hoodie pocket as we trek toward the stone circle ahead. Salty wind whips through my hair, making me wish I’d worn a hat. I pull up my sweatshirt’s hood.
The tension in my shoulders disappears when Gus and I reach the group, dispelling my theory it was soreness from painting. Worse is the way the apprehension is replaced with disappointment. Worst is the way the emptiness of it lingers.
I wish she were here, and I really wish I hadn’t even noticed she wasn’t.
