My brain whirs like an old, overheated computer. This is way more data than I’m built to process. I rest my head in my hands, a little woozy.
“I know it’s a lot,” Mom says. “Which is why we wanted to tell you now instead of waiting until the end of the week. That was always our plan, to tell you once we had been here a day or two, but then of course the wedding threw a big wrench in that. But we knew there’d be questions about the house once you were here again, and…we just didn’t want to keep it from you any longer.”
“Right,” I say. But my voice doesn’t sound like me. I’m still processing. “Yeah, that…that makes sense.”
“And you can talk to us about it as much or as little as you want,” Mom goes on. “There’s not a right or wrong decision, okay? Just take your time. No rush.”
The words clang in my ears—no rush. They feel so out of place. We’ll be rushing all week to get the house in wedding shape.One thing at a time, I think, but when Mom and I head up to clear out Dad’s closet, I can’t squash the anxious flutter of a time crunch. It’s hard to hold both at once, to move with drive and purpose as we sort through clothes and crates of Dad’s records, to make snap decisions about what stays and what goes knowing every small choice is building up to the final boss, the biggest keep or toss at hand. What do I want with a house in Galena, so far away from anywhere and anyone I want to be close to? But if Dad left it for me, did he want me to have it? To keep it? To do something with it?
At times like this, I wish I believed in signs. Angel numbers on the clock. A cardinal landing nearby. Whatever it takes to move through the grief, I support it, but it doesn’t work for me. I don’t believe in it, but I understand it—that desperate search for something that will make it okay. When I’m sorting through Dad’s record crates, I dip my hand into every record sleeve, hoping for a hidden note or some kind of clue from Dad that will tell me what to do with the Outpost. But there’s nothing—just records and dust.
Hey Dad,
Surprise! I’m a homeowner! But you knew that already. Why didn’t you tell me I’d be inheriting the Outpost? A heads up would’ve been nice, but maybe you wanted it to be a surprise? Or maybe you planned to tell me—I dunno, some other time? But then why didn’t you try to stick around to do it? I hate that I’ll never really know.
But let me backtrack here for a second and say this: Thank you, Dad. What a gift. I’m so sorry for assuming you blew all that money on booze. I feel like an asshole for that, but I hope you can forgive me. I’m working on forgiving you, too. It’s easy to feel like you gave up on living, but I’ll never know what it was like to be you. Maybe someday I’ll understand how it feels to decide that I’ve had my turn and it’s time to pass the dice.
Until then, it’s good to be back at the Outpost. I feel close to you here. I sort of wish I came back sooner, but there’s no point in wishing that, is there? What’s done is done. You’re gone, and I’m here, and I miss you all the time. I love you, Dad. Whatever I do with this place, I’ll be doing it to make us both proud.
Love,
Your Dallas Alice
Twenty-five
I was naive to think we could ever scrape thirty years of Ricky Pierce out of the Outpost. Mom, Kurt, and I spend two days hauling dozens of trash bags’ worth of junk from the house, plus seemingly infinite trunkfuls of donations. It’s exhausting work, and I spend nearly every minute of it thinking about Renee, wondering how that ride home went and if she came clean about her job after all. I’ve heard nothing from her—or anyone else—except in the group chat, and those texts are pure wedding logistics. Still, every time I stumble across some funny knickknack, anything of Dad’s that sparks a memory, I have to resist the urge to text Renee about it. If things were smoothed out between us, I would want her here. Everything is better with Renee.
We hold on to a few small things that matter. Kurt rescues Dad’s leather jacket. Mom and I each fill a box with his T-shirts and keepsakes, but even when we’ve cleared out all Dad’s belongings, he isn’t gone. Ricky Pierce has seeped into the foundation of this house. Each creaky floorboard sounds like the first chord of a song he never finished. I suppose I’m meant to finish it for him, to carry on my father’s legacy, but I’m no closer to knowing what that looks like than I was two days ago.No rush, I remind myself.
Back before I graduated with my music degree, I asked Dad if he thought I should give it a shot—start a band, be like him. It was spring break, that one infamous night Gin, Chrissy, and I overlapped with The Handful. Dad and I sat shivering on the porch swing, and I remember the haze in his eyes as he sipped his whiskey. He told me that so long as The Handful was relevant, Ricky Pierce’s kid had opportunities as a musician. But that wouldn’t last forever. The band’s tour and album sales had dipped, and my last name was likely a depreciating asset.Not every door stays open, Dad said.You better walk through ’em while you still got the chance.
I can still hear him now in the low whine of the porch swing as I sip my coffee, watching for my truck—Dad’struck—to pull up. After this weekend, Renee and I won’t have the wedding in common, no organic reason to interact. I’m running out of chances to have this conversation. The door is closing, but I’m no closer to walking through it.
What I would give for a template, a friend of a friend with an excellent spreadsheet for a situation just like this. I’m beginning to understand Renee’s love for a well-organized plan. It must feel nice to fool yourself into thinking you’re in control.
Rishi’s parents are the first to arrive, then Chrissy and Chris with a baffling number of suitcases. Mom and I help them lug it all upstairs, where we begin to negotiate the bedroom situation, but then I hear it—a faint but irritatingly familiar melody building in the distance. My eye twitches, and I stomp down and out to the porch just in time to witness my personal nightmare: My own truck crunches up the driveway, every window rolled down, blaring “You’re the One That I Want” fromGrease.
Gin seems to be the culprit. She’s smiling in the driver’s seat, shamelessly turning up the volume. Beside her, Rishi puts up his hands either in surrender or just to show he’s not controlling the playlist. All I can see of Renee are a few golden strands of hair billowing out the back window, but just knowing she’s here makes the air feel thick, harder to breathe.
Gin jogs up the steps to return my keys, and I put on myI’m not mad, I’m just disappointedface. “You know better than to play show tunes in the truck.”
“But I’m the bride!” Gin reminds me. As if any of us could forget. She says something else, too, but I don’t hear it. My attention is locked on the long tan legs draped out the side of the truck. Renee hip checks the door shut, pushes her sunglasses into her hair, then looks directly at me, her gaze unflinching. I’m not prepared; I have to steady myself against the banister. It hasn’t even been that long since I’ve seen her, but Imissedher.
“Alice?” Gin’s voice is a playful warning. I can feel her watching me, but I can’t tear my gaze from the slow swing of Renee’s hips as she breaks our eye contact, rounds the truck, and lets down the tailgate. Gin jogs down the steps to help unload all manner of wedding supplies but not before casting one last baited line over her shoulder. “Don’t blame me for the show tunes,” she says. “Renee is the one who had topractice.”
My thoughts zigzag. “Practice?” But I don’t get an explanation, because just then, Kurt calls for me from the living room. I sigh, then turn inside, where Kurt is slouched on one of the couches, flicking a pen against a notepad.
“This should all be down there in the studio, butcha might have to do some digging.” Kurt tears the perforated page from thenotebook and hands it off to me. It’s a list of audio equipment for the wedding.
“Would you mind…lending a hand?”
“Would if I could.” Kurt pats his thigh through his cargo shorts. “I’m no spring chicken, kid, and all that house-clearing took it outta me. I gotta keep the stairs to a minimum.” As if to prove his point, he slowly extends one leg, and his knee crunches like a bag of potato chips.
“Yuck,” I say, accidentally out loud, and he laughs, then looks past me, one wiry brow arched.
“I bet she’ll help ya out.”
Even before he says it, I know.
