As I’m stepping down from the stool, sure enough something shifts inside the purse. When I snap it open, a phone tumbles out. Kyle’s phone. I sit down on the bed, clutching the square box to my chest. What if whatever happened, happened because of this? Because of me and my stupid choices?
The doorbell rings downstairs—Wilson made way better time than she said. I get up and make my way slowly down the stairs.I know that I need to turn Kyle’s phone over to her, no matter what might be on it.
But when I finally look out, I see Will standing on the stoop. I jerk open the door.
He can’t return my aggressive hug because his hands are full, a book in one, Whole Foods bag in the other. “I saw your dad leave, thought maybe you could use some company.”
“I’m so glad to see you,” I say. The rush of relief knocks the wind from me. I can’t even remember why I’d felt so irritated at him earlier.
He lifts the bag of groceries as he steps inside. “I thought I could cook.”
I take a seat on a stool at the island as Will unpacks the groceries—tomato, garlic, onion, pasta—on the counter. While he begins to chop, I consider the fact that he’ll be here when Wilson arrives. But who cares? She can judge if she wants. It’s not like we’re committing a crime. Kyle is amuchbigger problem.
As Will cooks, I tell him about what happened in New Haven. And then without really planning to, I tell him that I think my mom killed someone all those years ago. That she must have had a reason, but still … That maybe she’s been kidnapped by someone blackmailing her. Or killed. That is possible, too. “So, in the end, it seems like you found more questions up there than answers?”
“Only what my mom apparently did,” I say. “And that place she lived in was … horrible. I had no idea how bad. It’s amazing she’s as normal as she is, given what she’s been through. Maybe I should tell the police about the blackmail at least. What if it really does have to do with what happened to her? If she did kill somebody, I know she must have had a reason—self-defense maybe. Whatever happened, I’m sure he deserved it.”
“I don’t know—as you said, the last thing you want to do is have your mom come back, only to get arrested … I mean, thereality is, you don’t know what happened that night. It was a long time ago. What if that person deserved it but your mom is still somehow guilty of murder?”
He’s right. Why is Will the only person in the world who seems to be able to be honest with me and not make me feel worse?
“I want to do something.”
“Of course you do. How about a glass of wine?” he asks. “I think what you need most is a second to collect your thoughts.”
He checks in a couple cabinets before he finds two wineglasses. Like we’re a married couple. Like this is our home. I imagine myself older—at a place where the years between us no longer matter—Will cooking, me watching from the couch, feet tucked beneath me. And I feel so safe and calm. This is right. It wouldn’t feel this good if it wasn’t.
“A glass of wine would be great, thank you.”
“Oh, and that’s for you,” he says, pointing at the book he left facedown on the island as he pours from an already opened bottle tucked in a corner of the counter.
I turn it over. Mary Oliver’sA Poetry Handbook.
“Obviously, your mind is elsewhere right now. But I thought it could be a reminder. Despite all this, there are still good things in your life, things to feel hopeful about. You have a future, Cleo, that will extend beyond this chaos. You are a truly gifted writer. I believe that will light your way.”
How, exactly, am I supposed tonotbe in love with him?
“Thank you,” I say, and my eyes fill with tears that I don’t try to hide. “Really.”
As Will pours, some wine sloshes onto the marble counter. “Oh, shoot,” he says. There are red flecks on his white shirt. “Ah, I’ll be right back. Let me go take a look in the mirror.” He gestures down the hall.
He disappears toward the bathroom and I flip the book open to the title page. There is a note from Will.Please promise me you’ll be a writer. God gives the gift to few.
Katrina
THE DAY OF
I hadn’t gone back to lock the door after Janine left. Otherwise, Cleo would have had to ring the bell—she never remembers her keys.
“Hey!” I called out when I heard the front door open. “Perfect timing!”
Cleo didn’t answer. And I couldn’t see her from where I was on the far side of the kitchen island. Taking off her shoes in the vestibule, headphones on probably—they’d been surgically implanted in her ears since she turned twelve. All the times I yelled at her to take them off. I worried about her hearing going; I worried about her getting hit in a crosswalk; I worried about her being one of those rude and obnoxious teens. What a waste of time. I’d worried so much, about all the wrong things.
I put the knife down and wiped my hands on a towel. As excited as I was to see Cleo, I knew we had a hard conversation in front of us.
I headed around the island and toward the door.
“Cleo, what’s taking you so—”
