Chapter fourteen
Sully
Achipped plate had been living in the back of my cabinet for at least six months, and I still hadn't decided what to do with it.
I was moving things without a reason. I pulled plates forward and turned mugs sideways. I stood the chipped plate against the back, separating it from the others. It was something to do with my hands on the first Thursday after the anniversary.
My phone buzzed on the counter. It was Cath Baker, Bryan's mom.
"Hi, Sully."
Her voice was careful but warm. She always sounded like she was making room for you. I'd eaten cereal at her kitchen table for half my childhood, and she welcomed me every time without using the specific words.
"Hey," I said. "Hi."
We got through the first part of the conversation cleanly. The Midwest was treating me well. She'd streamed the movieChicagoa few days back and thought about me.
Then she got to the point. "I've been going through his things."
The cabinet door was still open. I placed my hand on the counter.
"Okay," I said. "Yeah."
"It's taken me longer than I expected. The counselor says that's how it goes."
"Sounds like they're smart. It makes sense."
"There was a box in the closet." Her voice was even. "It was records. I think some of them might be yours."
"Yeah," I said. "He borrowed them when I left for school. Said he'd hold them, and I—"
I choked on the words. I'd meant to get the records back for years. Every time I forgot to ask when I was in town, I knew I could get them next year.
"Do you want them?"
I spoke before thinking through the answer. "Yeah. I mean—if that's alright."
"Of course it is. They're yours."
She suggested mailing them, or she thought maybe she'd be through Chicago at some point. She said there was always the option of me stopping by her house the next time I was in Boston.
We said goodbye with warm words delivered in a formal tone. It was like shaking hands when you were unsure whether it should be a hug.
The call ended.
I closed the cabinet and stood there for a moment. I knew what was there that was mine, and I knew the records that were Bryan's. One in particular belonged to both of us—the one signed by Stevie.
***
Carver's blasted me in the face when I arrived.
It was Thursday loud. Tomasz said that Thursday was the new Friday, ever since the pandemic. A table near the back was already past the point of no return.
I tied my apron.
Two beers were ordered at the rail. Then, a gin fizz I built before the order finished printing.
Nora appeared at the service end, already reaching. "Table eleven wants the entire cocktail menu explained."
