Sorry it’s been a while since I’ve written to you. It’s been kind of a weird night, and I don’t know that I really have anything good to say, but I just really miss you.
Planning Gin’s bachelorette party has me thinking a lot about planning your funeral. They’re not so different: just two parties planned in someone’s honor, but without much of their input. When Mom and I had to pick out flowers and what type of wood your casket should be, I wished you were there to weigh in. We should’ve asked you what you wanted while you were still around.
What I’m saying is I’m sorry if your funeral wasn’t exactly what you would have wanted. I’m not sure if you got to watch from wherever you are, but we had you buried in your Luccheses. I knew you would approve. I hope you approve of The Handful’s new singer, too. I think I’m less upset about the band and more upset by the thought of some new guy using your room at the Outpost. I wish we could keep that house exactly how you left it, like a museum of you and The Handful with all your guitars and summer clothes. Sometimes I want everything to stop because you’re gone. No one can take your place, Dad.
Love,
Your Dallas Alice
Six
The start of Chicago summer feels like the answer to a collective five-month prayer. Not that I pray, but if I did, a sunny forecast for Memorial Day weekend would be all the proof I needed that someone, somewhere, was looking out for me.
The studio is still open on holidays, but Aidan gave me the day off in exchange for picking up a shift this Friday night. For the first time in ages, I wake up without an alarm, blinking into the sun that falls in warm slats across my bedspread. I toss back my covers and muscle open a window, letting fresh air pour in, as thick and sweet as the yolk of a seven-minute egg. Warmth shimmers through me. It’s finally summer.
I hurry through a truncated version of my morning routine, slipping on my favorite leather shorts and a plain white tank top. I don’t bother looking in the mirror to futz with my hair; I’m too eager to get out in the sun and soak up the first truly nice daywe’ve had since September.Since Dad died, I think, then typeWish you were hereinto my running note of texts I’ll never get to send. Just then, an actual text appears from Gin, and the group chat pops off.
Gin’s I Do Crew
Gin Bennett
Hey guys! Guess who booked a wedding dress shopping appointment!?! Mark your calendars: Saturday June 14th at Kilpatrick’s Bridal Outlet. Appointment is at 9 A.M. and I figure we can do brunch after!
Chrissy Amato
YAAAAAAAAAY!! OMG. It’s HAPPENING!!! FYI, that’s the day before Father’s Day, so I’ll have to head straight to my parents’ place after brunch. Hope that’s okay!!!!!
Renee Roberts
Wouldn’t miss it, Gin! Similar sentiments about Father’s Day, but that morning, I’m all yours! Maybe we can get a carpool going, Chrissy? I’ll need a ride.
Gin Bennett
Omg, leave it to the girl who’s no-contact with her parents to forget about Father’s Day. But YAY!So glad you guys can come! I can’t pick out a dress without you!
Alice Pierce
That Saturday works for me.
Alice Pierce
Yay!
I blow out a breath, then turn my phone off and ditch it on the kitchen counter. I need a break from the constant correspondence, and lately, if I’m not texting the group chat, I’m barely resisting the urge to look up what Cold Sweat has been up to. What festivals have they played? What acts have they collaborated with? But the biggest question, the one I can’t stop asking, would yield no search results: What would I say if I saw Solas again? I leave it all behind for this summer’s inaugural iced coffee run.
Outside, the weather has transformed an ordinary day into something of a street festival. The sidewalks bustle with people, some debuting their shorts for the season, while others shed their top layers and knot them around their waists. Everyone I pass looks a little familiar, like I’ve seen them in a dream or in line at the grocery store, but I don’t reallyknowany of them. That’s the beauty of living in a city so big that it could swallow the rest of the state in one gulp: I’m one in a metropolis of millions. I can be anyone or no one, Ricky Pierce’s daughter or just another sleepy-eyed sucker walking into the coffee shop.
Or at least that’s what I used to think, but one step into Grounds Crew and my heart skids to a stop. Near the door, a woman sits alone at a table, nose scrunched at her laptop as she toys with astrand of white-blond hair that’s fallen loose from her claw clip. Renee Roberts, two feet away from me.
My immediate instinct—to bolt out the door and find a new favorite coffee shop—is thwarted by my own big mouth. I audibly gasp, drawing the attention of not only Renee but a half dozen other people, all blinking up at me with reasonable concern. Renee’s head cocks as she plucks out an earbud, and my cheeks burn beneath her heavy-lidded stare. I try an awkward smile, but she doesn’t match it. I wish to dissolve into coffee grounds. The next best option is to step into line.
I order my usual large cold brew, plus the last two chocolate croissants in the pastry case. A peace offering of sorts. The barista slips both croissants into one crinkly brown envelope, and I tip twice as much as usual. Good karma, I hope.
By the time I’ve swirled the perfect balance of oat milk and sweetener into my coffee, Renee’s attention is back on her laptop, nose crinkled with focus. In a plain red square-neck tank and light-washed denim cutoffs, she’s dressed more casually than I’ve ever seen her, although still in all her usual jewelry—hoop earrings, rings stacked on nearly every finger, and a single gold chain that rests just above her collarbones. The sun glints off it, and I feel the sparkle in the arches of my feet. Even dressed like the rest of us, she’s striking. It’s not fair.
“Special delivery.” I rest my elbows on the chair across from hers and give the pastry bag a shake, but Renee’s eyes don’t budge. She holds up her index finger, one cherry-red nail pointing upward in a silent demand:Wait. I have half a mind to show her a different finger, but after two sharp slaps of the space bar—clack clack—Renee lifts her gaze to mine, unamused.
“Do you need something?” Her tone borders on offended, like I’ve barged into her office by patronizing a coffee shop.
