We repeat this cycle through the first verse. I don’t notice the passing of time, the darkening of the sky outside the window. All that exists is me, Finn, and the melody we’re tossing back and forth. This is not a place where ability matters. Whatever musicality Finn carried through the world with him is gone, and whatever success he’s finding is through sheer will.
He’s trying. Trying so hard it hurts to watch when his fingers refuse to gain purchase on a key, and it feels like my own victory when they do.
As we play, memories rise and shuffle through my skull. Each twitch of my finger, each instruction, each pulse of a note brings back a piece of my childhood. Things I thought were long gone, like the smell of my dad’s cologne and our laughter dancing along with the music.
Memories are not permanent things. They slip away, rewrite themselves, hide away until they decide to slide back into the light.
Thirteen
The smoky barbecue smell driftsall the way from the backyard to where I’m hiding on the porch. I’ve made it ten pages into a book I snagged from Margot’s room, but concentration has been a never-ending battle since the accident. At first, the concussion paired with the grief gave me a pass at school, and while my grades took a nosedive, I still passed all my classes. I used to pore over sheet music, too, but the notes make my head hurt. I’ve never been a straight A student, more of a middle-ground coaster, but when school starts back up, I can’t imagine my GPA will improve.
Two voices headed up the driveway shatter the last of my measly focus. Holden and Cecily, the first with a bowl full of something that might be mashed potatoes and the latter with a foil-covered plate.
“Hey, Jo,” Holden says, pleasant as ever. He gives the bowl a little shake. “We come bearing gifts.”
I force a smile, abandoning my book altogether, and nod toward the door. “You can head on in. My mom has all the food on the table near the back door if you want to drop those off.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Holden says, taking the plate from Cecily and slipping past me and into the house.
“Hi,” Cecily says. She shifts her weight and tucks her hair behind her ears. As eager for a night of social interaction as I am.
People always assume that quiet or shy people naturally gravitate together or make the best pairs. But I’ve found it to be the opposite. Harper was an extrovert through and through, and if I didn’t want to fill the silence, she had no issue doing so. She didn’t take my silence for indifference. With Cecily and me, though, all the things we probably should say fill the air like a fog, and neither of us has the energy to try.
“Hi.”
Cecily’s eyes dart to the steps I’m perched on. I scoot sideways, a silent invitation to join. She gives me a grateful smile and settles on the step beside me.
After a long few seconds, she asks, “How’s the unpacking going?”
I lick my lips. I spent all day prepping my answers to the inevitable questions. Even if it is just Holden and Cecily in addition to my family.
“Mostly done. Me more than my family. They’re the sentimental type. More boxes to go through.”
“And you’re not?”
The ever-present lump in my throat pushes up. “Not anymore,” I say.
Cecily nods.
“Blackridge bore you to death yet?”
“It’s…quiet. Quieter than I’m used to.”
Cecily nods again. She watches the street, though at the end of the block, cars and passersby are rare. “It’ll pick back up in the fall. People get weird during the summer.”
“I kind of expected the opposite.”
Cecily clears her throat. She draws her knees up, arms looping around them.
“How are the kittens?” I ask, remembering her conversation with Nora at the store.
Cecily exhales like she’s relieved I’ve changed the subject. I guess the town’s oddities and superstitions aren’t as comfortable a topic for her as they are for the other locals. “Good. They’re eating on their own now. It’s nice not to have to get up every two hours.”
“I bet you’re happy to be sleeping through the night.”
Cecily scrunches her nose. “Yeah, not really. I’ve never slept well. Always tossing and turning. Weird dreams or…” She stops before she saysnightmares. Sneaks a glance at me and straightens. “It’s just a side effect of my treatment. I’ve gotten used to it.”
“My mom mentioned that you were really sick when you were a kid. But you seem okay now,” I say, knowing how naive it sounds coming out. Not all sickness is visible; sometimes the most dangerous things are the ones you can’t see.
