Chapter sixteen
Sully
My phone lit up on the kitchen counter at half past ten. It was the building line. I almost let it go to voicemail.
"Mr. O'Reilly," Martin spoke in his formal tone. "Package down here for you. USPS."
"On my way."
I was in sock feet, wearing yesterday's jeans. The quick down and back didn't require changing.
The lobby was quiet; most of the residents were at work or working in their home offices. Martin had the box on the desk beside him. He slid it across without ceremony, told me it had come in about twenty minutes ago.
On the way back up, I read the return address twice. It was simple—Baker, Lexington, Massachusetts. It didn't include a zip code.
Three strips of tape stretched across the top, pressed flat. Cath Baker sealed things tightly, the way my grandmother always wrapped her Christmas presents.
Pratt would already be at the practice facility. His schedule ran in my subconscious.
Back in my condo, I set the box on the counter and didn't open it immediately. I ran my thumb along the tape seam and pressed one corner to test the give.
After starting coffee, I pulled a steak knife from the drawer. The serrated edge gave me a ragged cut, top to bottom. The cardboard gave without resistance.
Inside were sheets of packing paper folded with care. I tore it open and pushed it aside.
The first record was face down.
I'd guessed what it was before I turned it over.
Rumours:Mick Fleetwood in a black and white outfit with a ponytail. Stevie was in motion, draped in chiffon. And those balls hanging between Mick's legs. We had a lot of laughs over those.
Stevie Nicks' signature was still there, bottom right corner. It was in silver marker, slightly smeared. The night we bought it came back in pieces. It was from a merch table immediately after the concert.
Bryan had won backstage access from a local radio station. It was the biggest night of his life, meeting his top musical heroes, and he needed something for them to sign. We met Stevie for about forty-five seconds. She smiled, signed, and moved on to the next person in line.
Bryan's smile nearly broke his face. For the next month, every third conversation included, "—like when we met Stevie Nicks at the concert."
We'd called it joint property because I was the only one with the cash required.
That wasn't accurate. It belonged to Bryan, regardless of who paid. He loved the album first and longest.
A second record sat underneath. It was the self-titled breakthrough Fleetwood Mac album, the one beforeRumours. Bryan bought it for a quarter at a yard sale, and it kicked off his obsession. We listened to it at his house on his mother's stereo. We sprawled on the floor and listened from start to finish. Bryan talked through some songs and went quiet for others.
There was something else in the box. Cath had wrapped it separately. It was a photograph, unframed. The front was glossy, and I looked before I could stop myself.
It was the dorm room, junior year, based on the wall behind us. Cath had taken it herself on move-in day. Bryan and I had our arms around each other's shoulders with broad smiles. We loved our corner of the world, and it loved us back.
Underneath the photo was a note, folded once.
He talked about you all the time. I hope you know that.
I read it again, and I couldn't keep standing. I slid down to the floor with my back against a kitchen cabinet, a note in my hand and face between my knees. It wasn't a collapse, more a surrender to gravity.
I didn't move or cry.
The refrigerator hummed. A pipe somewhere in the building knocked once and quit.
I don't know how much time passed before I stood up to retrieve my phone. I found Tricia in my recent calls list. I didn't know for sure what she could offer, but at least she knew the context.
