Page 5

Henry and I. Slow dancing, probably two feet between us, my hands on each of his shoulders, his gangly arms a little high on my waist. I think Henry’s mom, Kristine, had told him he had to dance with me. We both look completely mortified, like we couldn’t get away from each other fast enough.

Before he grew into his long limbs and those broad shoulders that are now seared into my brain, he was always beautiful. It was those soft blue eyes, the slight curl of his dark hair. I hate this memory of him. I want to exorcise it from my brain, or go back in time and warn my younger self about all the irreversible harm he would one day do to her.

I hear a knock on my door and slam the book shut.

Mom enters slowly and hands me a mug full of chamomile tea. It’s ceramic, something I painted at my eighth birthday party. Everything here is a constant reminder.

Being here, in this house, in these clothes, in this life, it’s all too much.

This is why I come home as rarely as Mom will allow.

I know that’s not fair. To Mom, to Hannah, even to Dad.

In New York, I can pretend I’m a normal, well-adjusted person, but here, I can’t hide from anything.

Mom is looking at me like she’s on the precipice of a speech. She sits down with me on the bed, but I can tell she’s barely able to hold it in. She runs her thumb and pointer finger over a face-framing curl. After years of blowouts and straightening her hair, it’s nice to see Mom’s natural curls out in full force in a layered bob.

“Lay it on me,” I say, knowing she’s about to burst.

“I know you’re only supposed to stay for a couple days,” she begins slowly.

My eyes narrow. I know where this is going.

Mom pushes her thick-rimmed burgundy glasses up her nose. “But I want you to extend your trip. At least through all eight nights of Hanukkah.” She starts to dig in about how long it’s been since I really spent time at home, how we need this. As a family.

I can’t even think of a time growing up where we remembered to light the menorah beyond the second night.

Mom tells me it’s important, but holding this mug, surrounded by too many painful memories, I can’t. I know I can’t.

“I’m sorry. I have to get back for work,” I lie. “I can only stay through the weekend.”

I can tell she’s hurt, and it immediately makes me regret the words that came out of my mouth. I don’t know why I can’t be normal, can’t be here. I don’t know why I can’t tell her any of that. Mom just seems so chipper, and I haven’t seen her like that in so long. I don’t want to dredge up more of the past and burst this Hanukkah-shaped bubble.

* * *

I wake up too early, still on New York time. I’ve got a barrage of drunk texts from Rob, but knowing him, they’re more likely fake-drunk texts with a slew of carefully thought-through “typos” to try to suss out the info he’s desperate for. He likes me sooooo much. He misses me. He wants to know if I have an answer yet. I obviously do, but I’m just not ready to deal with him.

The house is still quiet, so I layer up with what I can find in my room and downstairs on the coat rack, and slip out.

Sure, it gets cold in New York, but it’s not quite like this. I’ve gotten spoiled, soft, in my years away from the Midwest. As I start to run, the only way I’ve ever found to quiet my brain, I can feel the chill deep in my lungs. It starts to burn as I press on. But I focus on the bitter inhale and the harsh exhale and that’s the only thing getting me through.

As I approach the house, cheeks numb, eyelashes frozen open, I see Henry pull into his driveway. He gets out of the car with a to-go cup of coffee, earbuds in, clearly on a call that isn’t going well based on the distressed, tense nature of his body, his ramrod-straight spine. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but as I reach our driveway, a mirror image of his, he looks over at me, like maybe he wants to say something. I sprint to the door, not giving him an opportunity.

I spend half the morning trying to track down my suitcase, and after the fifth person I’m transferred to, I learn that the bag is still en route, and likely won’t arrive until tomorrow morning. Rob continues to blow up my phone with apologies for the drunken texts, and I continue to ignore them all.

Hannah emerges from her room at some point, while I’m on hold again, shoving her phone in my face. “Why is Rob the Slob DMing me?” she demands, the stream of messages having woken her.

When Rob and I first started hooking up, I discovered there was no hand soap at all in his bathroom. There was a bar in the shower that I had on good authority he stuck directly into his ass, but that was it. I ended up buying a soap dispenser from Duane Reade for his bathroom on my way over once because I couldn’t take it anymore. I made the mistake of telling Hannah this fact, and he’s been Rob the Slob to her ever since.

I sigh deeply and go back to my string of unanswered texts. I slowly type, I had to extend my trip. Sorry! Going off the grid!!!

Hannah peers over my shoulder and then squeals. “Mom, she’s staying!” my sister exclaims as she runs down the hall.

I follow Hannah back into the kitchen, where Mom is putting on another pot of coffee. “Oh, honey, this is my gift for the first night. You don’t even need to give me anything else.”

I look at Hannah and mouth, Gifts for every night? when Mom turns back to counting out scoops of coffee grounds. “She didn’t even do that when we were kids. What’s going on?” Hannah shrugs.

“I’m over the moon you’ll be here the whole holiday. I have big news, and I’ve been trying to figure out a way to tell you.” Mom barely waits a beat. “Do you remember Ms. Cole? Kristine?”