The young couple moving in would never know any of this. They’d never see the faint outline where Jake had once measured himself with the divot of a butter knife, or where Quinn had tried to cheat by standing on his toes. And that was the point.
They had two kids already and one more on the way. When they stood here months from now, tape measure in hand, this wall needed to belong to them.
We’d had offers well above asking, some laughably high, from people who wanted the house because of Jake’s name or the story attached to it or the novelty of living where he’d grownup. Scott had let me decide. He always did when something mattered to me this much. So I’d chosen the family.
I didn’t want it turned into a spectacle. I wanted it to remain a house. Loved. Lived in. The start of someone else’s story. Yes, terrible memories had been made here, ones that Jake couldn’t bear coming home to, but this wall was proof that beautiful ones had too.
Scott stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, watching me paint over our past with his own nostalgia. “We can’t take the wall with us.”
“I know,” I said. “I just wanted to say goodbye.”
“To the wall?”
“To what it held,” I said. “Don’t pretend you don’t know.”
He smiled.
I dipped the brush again and painted over another name and another year. The ache was still there, but it didn’t take my breath anymore.
Scott reached for a second brush. “Scoot.”
We painted side by side, the wall slowly going blank. I imagined new pencil marks someday—new names, new dates, a different mother standing right here, measuring time in inches and wondering how it moved so fast.
The wall would hold their story next.
And that felt right.
We were loadingthe last of our things into the back of the Shaggin’ Wagon when Malcolm and Deana wandered over. Yes, that truck. Scott’s old beater. It had spent its golden years as Keith’s surf mobile before finally showing its age. We didn’t drive the truck much anymore, but we weren’t about to leave it behind. So, once she made the drive to the new house, Scottplanned to retire her in one of the garages he was so excited about. A proper full-circle moment for the old girl.
Malcolm held a folded lawn chair under one arm, still wrapped in plastic. Deana cradled an aluminum pan as if it were going to fold over on her.
“For the new place,” Malcolm said, clearing his throat as he handed the chair to Scott. “Figured you shouldn’t have to break in a new neighborhood without proper seating.”
Scott laughed, but there was something caught in it. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, well,” Malcolm shrugged. “Hard to imagine you not sitting outside pretending to work on your yard.”
“Hold on there,” Deana said. “You two have just been messing around for all these years?”
“Why did you think the lawn always looked so bad?” I asked, amused.
“We’ll miss you.” Deana pressed the pan into my hands and gave me a quick hug. “Baked ziti. You’ll be tired tonight.”
“I already am,” I admitted. “Thank you.”
We stood there a moment, awkward in that way goodbyes always are when no one wants to make them heavy. More neighbors wandered over with offerings: a bag of lemons from someone’s tree, a plant, a loaf of bread wrapped in a towel that had seen better days. People we hadn’t known well but had known a long time. This street had seen us at our worst, with police cars lining the curb, news vans clogging the cul-de-sac, and strangers trampling over their grass. Later had come a different kind of invasion—fans hoping for a glimpse of Jake. It had been a lot for one street to handle.
Scott moved easily among them, trading handshakes and half-hugs, remembering names and kids and dogs. He’d known them better than I had. I’d waved from the porch, smiled at block parties, and even taught a few of their kids piano whenschedules overlapped and money was tight. But we’d shared something bigger than friendship: time.
“Take care of each other,” someone said.
“We always do,” Scott replied, slipping an arm around my shoulders.
I leaned in, my fingers threaded through his, and kissed him. I’d never been one for public displays of affection, but some moments earned them.
Before leavingfor our new home, I took a final pass through the old one, walking into each room to make sure nothing had been left. Flicking the light on in Grace’s room, I took a look around, smiling. She’d lived her whole life in this room, first bunking with Quinn in a room divided in half and then on her own once Keith and Emma left and freed up extra rooms.
When I slid open the closet door, a sheet of paper fluttered. It was a drawing, unmistakably Grace’s. She’d never been much of an artist, and this was no exception. Something resembling reindeer antlers jutted out of a rounded shape, and beneath it, in careful block letters, she’d misspelled: RanDeer Man.
