Page 118 of When We Were Young

She looks up at me.

“My da—… my father died last night.”

“I know, sweetie.”

“He died,” she says again.

I nod.

This reaction is probably normal, but I’m worried about her. Her eyes gloss over for a few seconds, before they return to normal.

“This is the worst time. I know that sounds horrible to say, but this is truly horrible timing. And the funeral is the day after tomorrow in Texas. I need to book flights. I need to⁠—”

“Okay, okay. Let’s slow down. I’m going to help you.”

Her eyes meet mine, and the doubt and anxiety she’s feeling are on full display there.

“No. I have to do it. I have to do so many things.”

Over the next hour, I stay with her as she packs and unpacks various items of clothing.

I texted Georgie to come help a few minutes ago. Relief washes over me when there’s a knock at the door and it’s her.

“We need to make a plan. She’s spiraling, and I’ve never seen her do anything like this before.” I keep my voice low so Lizette won’t overhear.

“Her father was a piece of work, too. He doesn’t deserve any of this. He never deserved her. Not with the way he treated her.”

“Have you ever seen her in a frenzy like this?” I ask.

“Just once in Elladine when—” Her eyes widen.

“What were you going to say, Georgie?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

“Tell me, please.”

“Holden, don’t push. This isn’t the time.”

“Anyway, she came out of it, but her thinking was kind of unclear for a bit.”

“This throws off her plan in a major way, and that has her shaken,” I say, more to myself than her.

“Yeah, it does,” Georgie answers. “And she doesn’t do well with that.”

“All right. I’m going to need your help big time. Can you get our friends together?” I ask.

An hour or two later, I’ve convinced Lizette to sit at the table with me. Her long list—which she’s now transferred to a small notebook—is in front of her, filled with all the things she thinks she needs to handle or cancel because she won’t be here.

“What?” she asks, glancing up from the paper she’s scribbling notes on. Within seconds, she’s back to studying her list.

“Can we talk for a minute? Like full-attention talk?”

Her hand stills, but she doesn’t look up immediately. After a few seconds, though, she sets down the pen and makes eye contact with me.

“Can we talk through what’s going to happen now?” I ask.

“I guess. But it doesn’t necessarily affect you.” There’s no edge to the words, but they sting. I hate that she doesn’t realize I’m here. That I’m staying, and she doesn’t have to do this alone.