Evan’s chin dips in understanding. “You want to come back after, spend the night?”
“No,” I say. “I’ve got—”
“Another call with Stevie,” he fills in.
I didn’t tell him about the calls, but somehow he guessed. I haven’t told him that we’ve spoken almost every night since she called me a little over a week ago to tell me about her family selling the orchard. We talk about everything and nothing until one of us falls asleep. It’s like our nights at the cabin but better, because distance makes us more honest, more vulnerable.
I don’t know what we’re doing. I feel like we’ve crossed a line somewhere, but they feel blurry now that we’re miles apart. I just know that I don’t want to stop, that talking to her has become my favorite part of the day. And that even though it gets harder to hang up each night, and the ache of missing heris growing as persistent as that of a missing limb, I can’t bring myself to stop.
“I better go,” I say, folding the dish towel before laying it on the counter.
He nods. “Tell Mom I love her.”
I swallow against the lump in my throat. “I will.”
The cemetery is on the edge of town, on land owned by a small, surprisingly Gothic-style church for rural Montana. I haven’t been back since the day of the funeral, and even though I know time has passed, I’m surprised to see grass covering the ground instead of fresh soil. I remember the funeral director allowing Evan and me to both drop a fistful of dirt onto her casket. The day was so cold, and the dirt was too. It felt so wrong in my hand, so very different from the way it feels in summer when the sun warms the ground. But that day there was no sun. Mom died, and it felt like she had taken all the warmth in the world with her.
It’s cold today, too, but not as cold as that day in February more than ten years ago.
Today, there is a blanket of freshly fallen snow just beginning to cover the dead grass. It’s still coming down, fat snowflakes landing on my jacket and nose, clinging to my eyelashes and the bits of hair sticking out beneath my hat.
I find her grave easily. Even though I’ve only been once before, the memory of it lingers. There’s the bouquet that Evan dropped off yesterday, bright against the snow. She would love it, the deep green and the bright red. I should have brought something, too, but I know Mom would be happy just knowing I was here, finally.
The cold bites at me as I stare at her headstone.Jo Sullivan, loving and devoted mother.It was the inscription the funeral home suggested, and Evan and I were too lost to think of anything else. It’s true enough, technically, but those six words feel so hollow. They don’t come close to encapsulating everything she was.
My throat is thick and my nose is cold, my hands turning to ice in my pockets, but I stand in the snow until my legs grow weak, and then I sit down. I don’t know how long I’ve been out here, staring at the words, trying to make sense of them. Or when the tears started to fall, turning to ice on my cheeks.
“I’m so sorry, Mom,” I say, the wind ripping the words away. “I’m so sorry I ran away, and that I stayed away. I should have been there for Evan. You’d be so disappointed in me.”
I don’t expect a response, but I still sit in silence, wishing for one.
“I remember when Evan and I were little, you used to call him your funny boy. You called me your tender-hearted boy. I was embarrassed by it then, when all I wanted was to be funny like Evan, but one day you told me it was a gift that I had a tender heart, that it would take me far in life.” I swallow. “It has, but not in the way you wanted. I’ve been running for so long, trying to keep myself from getting attached to anyone or anywhere because I didn’t want to get hurt again. But I think I made myself hard, too.”
The cold whips around the towering trees, whistling through the branches.
“I met someone,” I tell my mom. “Her name is Stevie. You’d love her. She’s tender-hearted, like you wanted me to be, even though she’s got a tough exterior. She’s given up so much for the people she loves, and I don’t want to be another person she does that for. I want to be the kind of person she can rely on, the kind of person who stays, but I’m still so scared. Scared I’ll let myselffall for her and she will be taken away from me too. Scared thatI’llmess up, that I’ll ask too much of her.
“I don’t know how to do this. I wish…” I trail off. “I wasn’t ready for you to go. You didn’t get to teach me how to be an adult, and I’ve screwed it all up. I’m worried you wouldn’t like the man I’ve become. I’m not sure I do.”
I stay at Mom’s grave until my legs grow numb, then I go back to the cabin at the ranch, taking a long shower to warm myself up. Then I get out my laptop and close out the email Amy sent with contracts. Instead, I open up a new browser and search for nursing jobs near Fontana Ridge.
Evan was right—my job has become my excuse to keep running, to never stay anywhere too long. If I want something with Stevie, I can’t keep running. I need to be a constant, someone she can rely on instead of being the person who is always relied on.
I’m still searching for jobs when my phone vibrates on the sofa beside me, Stevie’s picture lighting up the screen. My heart hammers out an unsteady rhythm in my chest as I look between my phone and the computer screen, wondering if I should tell her what I’m thinking.
I slide open the call and Stevie’s husky voice fills the line, “Merry Christmas, Jack.”
“Merry,Christmas,Jack.”
It’s been a long, bittersweet day. I spent the day at my parents’ house. It was strange, knowing that next year things would be different. The house would still be theirs, but the farm wouldn’t. We did everything we always do. Opened presents in our pajamas and ate sticky buns for breakfast. We drank mugs of Dad’s tar-like coffee and watched Christmas movies on the sofa. Grandma was having a good day, happy and lucid, but I know that won’t always be the case. Next year, everything about the day could change.
But this year, we chose to enjoy it.
I stayed there until darkness fell, soaking in every last moment, then headed home with a tin full of holiday desserts we spent the afternoon baking. There are cookie crumbs on my flannel pajama shirt, and I have a fireplace playing on the TV screen, soft Christmas music coming through the speakers.
“Merry Christmas, Stevie,” Jack says.
“How was your day?”
