Page 215 of The Wright Man

He looked like he wanted to argue. Like his mouth itched to form a sentence with the word "no" in it. But something in my face—or maybe my silence—changed his mind.

He walked stiffly past me and opened the door to the garage and hit the clicker. I heard the mechanical whirring of the garage door opening from the open door.

"Happy?"

I didn't answer.

Because I wasn't.

I walked past him and carefully placed the paintings in the open garage. I did the same with the blue ottoman.

Next stop: her closet.

The mirror stood tall in the corner, full-length with a white frame and little chips along the edges from years of being moved. She used to send me pics from this mirror—outfits, hair updates, the occasional "I feel cute, tell me I'm pretty" thirst trap when she was tipsy. I could see her in my mind now: standing barefoot in a robe, talking to herself in the glass, reciting those affirmations she wrote out in her journals.

I am not broken. I am worthy. I am everything I needed growing up.

I swallowed hard and angled the mirror carefully through the doorway, holding it tight.

"You know," Gavin said behind me, trailing like a fly, "I bought her a new one last Christmas. Bigger, better frame. She stuck this old piece of shit right back in the corner like mine didn't exist. Typical."

I kept walking.

In the kitchen, I found the mixer tucked in a lower cabinet like an afterthought. Matte pink, heavy as hell, still in perfect condition. Her dad gave it to her when we graduated high school. Said it was a "grown woman starter kit." Angelica beamed the first time she told me that story.

As I hoisted it onto the counter, Gavin leaned against the fridge.

"I forgot about that. Figured she'd left it behind on purpose, since she ain't baked for me in months. Shame, too. Shorty used to throw down. Guess the spark died when her oven stopped working."

I turned toward the garage door.

"She ever bake for you, Marine? You got her cookies, or just crumbs?"

I opened the door without looking at him and carried the mixer out.

Back upstairs, I made my way to the bedroom. Her chair was still there, parked by the window like she might come back any second to sink into it. Mint green-colored upholstery, a soft throw blanket draped across the back, and one of those velvet eye masks resting on the arm.

I pictured her in that chair with a bonnet on, clay mask drying on her face, wine in hand, book cracked open to whatever smut she swore she wasn't reading. Her way of unwinding. Unapologetic softness.

I lifted the chair, maneuvering it carefully through the hallway.

"You should've seen her in that thing," Gavin called. "Used to sit there in my T-shirts—no panties, just legs spread, lookin' like a centerfold. Used to make me late for work."

I froze for a breath. Just one.

Then kept walking.

The chair joined the rest in the garage, and I headed for the last piece: the green trunk.

It was tucked in the hall closet under a stack of unused linens. Scratched up, beat to hell, but sturdy. She'd had it since we were teenagers. Used to write her name on it in gel pen, decorate it with stickers and dried flowers and little heart doodles. This was the box where she stored her most important shit—the kind you don't explain to nobody else.

I remembered when I helped her open it after Mama's funeral, how we both cried while tucking the program inside.

I wondered what else she'd added over the years. The milestones I'd missed while gone. A picture from her salon's opening day. Affirmations she used to tell herself. Something from the day she became who she was without me there to watch. I didn't know, and it burned. But she asked for it. So I brought it.

I bent to lift it, feeling the way the metal edges dug into my palms. It smelled like cedar and lavender and the softest parts of her.

When I turned to carry it out, Gavin was still there. Watching me like a man trying to provoke a war, still poking the fucking bear.