“Better. Not perfect, but better.”
“Glad to hear it,” Renee says, and even in the silence that follows, there’s a warm, swirling reassurance, knowing she still cares.
It’s a sun-soaked afternoon in downtown Galena, the whole town like a living postcard photo. Tourists mill about clutching coffees and shopping bags. A bespectacled shopkeeper in a checkered apron sweeps the sidewalk like a character in a play about a charming small town. Galena is a menagerie of darling details, and Renee’s eyes leap from one to the next. Watching her see Main Street is a view of its own.
“Have you been here before?” I ask.
“Once or twice. We’re only about an hour from where I grew up.”
“In Iowa, right? And your parents are still there?”
Another nod, then she fixes her eyes straight ahead. It’s not much, but it’s nice, these tiny doses of conversation. It’s better. And probably about as good as it can be right now.
Past the popcorn, fudge, and ice cream shops, the playhouse is a big brick castle of a building, much grander than it stands in my memory. Renee slips a brochure from the box on the door, a little reading material for the surprisingly long coffee shop line. Just glancing at the brochure, I’d guess that the Galena Playhouse does not employ a graphic designer. I’ve never seen a Canva template go so horribly wrong, but the venue photography is stunning, a showcase of a gloriously restored historic theater with steep auditorium-style seats.
“Capacity of 520,” Renee reads aloud. “That seemsreallysmall for The Handful.”
“I think that’s the idea. Since it’s a memorial show, I think they wanted to keep it intimate.”
Intimate. Intimate. Intimate.I couldn’t have chosen a different word?
At the counter, Renee sets the brochure down, and I pick it up,mostly as an excuse to move closer to her than I should. She either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mind, and I wish I knew which. If I could brush back that soft blond hair and peer into her thoughts, maybe I’d know exactly how to play this. Am I too late? Is she done with me? When I figure out what to say, will she still be around to hear it? I’m paging blindly through the rest of the brochure, sorting out my own messy head, when my eyes land on something that makes every other thought skid to a stop. The playhouse is putting up two musicals this year:RentandGrease. It feels like a sign. I’m just not sure what of.
Twenty-six
After a long day of manual labor, there are no words more beautiful to me thanhomemade chicken biryani. The Bhats are certainly showing off; the chicken tikka falls right off the skewers, and the saffron rice is fluffy and divine. We’re ravenous, all of us gathered around the dining room table, shoveling up heaping bites at the speed of a time-lapse video.
“Hershel is the chef between us,” Asha brags on her husband’s behalf, although Mr.Bhat insists the opposite, giving his wife all the credit for the meal. Asha tuts and gives Gin a small, knowing smile. “You know our Bhat men. So humble.”
Maybe it’s the Chrissy-fication of Asha, or else all the time they spent together getting the backyard in wedding shape brought them closer together. Whatever the explanation, Gin seems fully herself around the Bhats. She swipes a napkin over her lips and asks, “Have you thought about teaching your son to cook like this?”
Mr.Bhat lifts his brows along with a forkful of biryani. “Perhaps we can arrange cooking lessons after the move.”
It’s a passing comment, one I might’ve missed if not for Mr.Bhat’s reaction—it’s the most expressive I’ve ever seen him, the face of a man who doesn’t often misspeak.
Naturally, Chrissy’s the one to say something. “Did you say…the move?”
The exchange that follows between Gin, Rishi, and Rishi’s parents consists only of blinks and head tilts. Finally, Gin sighs and swipes open her phone.
“We were going to save it till after the wedding,” she says, “but I guess it’s about time we shared the news.”
The move. The news.
My phone rumbles in my pocket, and Chrissy and Renee reach for theirs, too. Gin has texted a link to the group chat. A listing. A house.
My stomach free-falls, but Gin and Rishi are smiling, so I try to stay calm.
“We weren’t really looking for a house,” Gin admits, “but after all the time we spent in the northern suburbs working on the yard for the wedding…it started to make sense.”
I hold my breath and press my thumb to the link. A redbrick ranch with deep-green shutters and a wraparound porch. I swipe through the gallery, touring the living room, the kitchen, all three beds, and two baths. It’s bright and inviting, full of natural light and dark hardwood floors. The listing is marked in red:pending.
“It’ll be closer to family—and to Rishi’s work,” Gin goes on. Rishi’s holding her hand now, their smiles the same amount of proud. “We drove past this for sale sign so many times, so we swung by the open house just for fun. And then…well…but it wasn’t just for fun after all!”
And there’s that old familiar feeling. Joy and grief, all at once. I’m happy for Gin and Rishi, but I also feel like I’m halfway through a board game, and just when I’m finally starting to understand the rules, someone has flipped the board. The pieceshave gone flying, and I’m frozen in fear at the thought of starting again. It’s all happening so fast. This is now. This ispending.
After dinner, I slip out to the porch for a breath. This week has been madness, one curveball after another, and tomorrow will bring a new brand of chaos, a fresh blend of all the best and worst feelings when The Handful takes the stage without Dad. I watch the sun tuck itself beneath the horizon knowing that, the next time it rises, Dad will have been gone one full year. Will I make it to midnight? I’m barely awake now. The slow back and forth of the porch swing rocks me to the verge of sleep; then the chains jangle with the weight of someone sitting down beside me. Gin.
What she says is “Mind if I sit with you for a sec?” But her tone saysThis is your wellness check. I must not have kept the poker face I thought before slipping away.
