“I said April-ish. This is April-ish.”
“This is March seventeenth.”
“Which is April-ish if you round up.” She takes a serene sip of tea. “Aunt Patricia sends her love. She also sends this.”
She gestures to the table, where a weathered metal box sits.
I know that box.
I helped bury that box.
Twenty years ago, under the pecan tree in Mom’s backyard.
“No,” I say.
“Yes,” Mom says.
“Absolutely not.”
“Sweetheart—”
“How do you even have that? We buried it.” I’m backing away like the box might literally explode. “How did you—why did you—when did you?—”
“Your grandmother dug it up about three years after you buried it.” Mom’s voice is infuriatingly calm. “She was worried you wouldn’t be able to find it again. So she gave it to me for safekeeping.”
“For safekeeping.”
“I’ve been keeping it safe.”
“For twenty years?”
“It’s been very safe.”
I sink into the chair across from her because my legs have apparently decided they’re done supporting my weight. Ruffy, sensing drama, comes to rest his head on my knee.
“Why,” I manage, “are you showing me this now?”
Mom sets down her tea. “Because I got a call from Jo yesterday. She told me you’ve been spendingtime with a certain rock star who’s in town for the wedding.” She pauses. “And then I got a call from Brittany at the gym this morning, who said she saw you and that same rock star having ‘a moment’ in the hallway before Penelope interrupted and made things awkward.”
“The Twin Waves gossip network is terrifyingly efficient.”
“It’s how we survive. Small towns run on information.” She nudges the box toward me. “I’ve been waiting a long time for you to be ready for this, Delilah. I think you’re finally ready.”
“I’m not ready. I’m the opposite of ready. I’m so far from ready that ready is a dot on the horizon.”
“Open the box.”
“Mom—”
“Open. The. Box.”
Her voice has shifted into what I call her “flower shop negotiation” tone—the one she uses when brides try to change their entire order two days before the wedding. It’s the voice of a woman who has seen some things and will not be moved.
I open the box.
The smell hits me first. Old paper, sea salt, something faintly floral—pressed flowers, I realize, catching a glimpse of fadedpetals at the bottom. The scent of seventeen and stupid and so desperately in love it hurt.
Inside, nestled in tissue paper that’s gone yellow with age, are the artifacts of a summer I’ve spent twenty years trying to forget.
