“Right,” Casey says, his voice distant. “My hair. Right.” There’s a long pause, in which Casey’s gaze seems to be fixed on something far further away than the fridge he appears to be staring at, and which Will spends briefly but fervently considering taking a career turn towards unlicensed bridge demolition. Then, more brightly, Casey says, “We should do something, you know? To mark the occasion.”
Will has several enterprising suggestions, none of which are remotely appropriate. He swallows them, trying not to wince, and says, in an impressively normal tone, “That’s a good idea; what were you thinking?”
Casey shrugs, his face very casual, but his eyes dancing in excitement. “What do you think about a bonfire? We probably could do with one, anyway, a lot of dried out husks and other stuff that we could stand to clear out of the barn, and conditions are certainly safe for it right now, after all that rain. Get some drinks, some food, have it out in the field by the market—if, you know, that’s…workable.”
There’s a loaded pause, and this time Will can’t totally suppress the wince; he knows what Casey’s saying, or what he’s not saying. He means that he knows it’s Will’s land, and thus Will’s call whether or not they set a big fire on it and invite the town to come enjoy its light and warmth. It’s good of him, an allowance of sorts for things to sit easier between them, but it makes Will feel as though his intestines have had an unlikely Gorgon encounter and are being slowly turned to stone.
“Sure,” he says weakly, after a second, instead of adding insult to injury by uttering the words “stone intestines” in front of what surely has to be the most attractive man the state of Ohio has ever produced. “I mean, who doesn’t like a bonfire?And I can talk to Mere and see if she’ll help me throw together a plan, get the word out—it’s not like anyone can have anything better to do, right?”
“Exactly,” Casey says, grinning. Then the expression goes smaller, more thoughtful, as he adds, “And, anyway, I think with something like this, it’s all about how people remember it, right? When I was a kid, there was this crazy mudslide one year at a festival we were at, took out half the hill behind the main stage, it was bananas. So much rain, flooding, obviously mud everywhere, ruined equipment—a nightmare. Whole thing got shut down after the first day. But, at the end of that day, the bands came out and played a few crazy, off-the-cuff sets, and everybody danced and drank and ate what they could before the crews came to clear it out, and I still run into people who remember that as the best show they ever went to, mud and all.” He shrugs, throwing Will a slightly rueful glance, and adds, “Or, you know, maybe it was all the drugs everyone was probably on; what do I know? I was nine.”
You were NINE?Will thinks, wondering what on earth Casey would have been doing at an outdoor music festival in a mudslide at nine years old, but not sure this is the moment to ask. Instead, striving for a light, jovial tone, he says, “I’m not saying we should drug the town, you understand, but I do think we could probably achieve getting several of them slightly tipsy and showing the rest a moderately good time. But, if the bridge will be ready Saturday—” Will swallows, hard, against the realization of exactly how soon that is. “That pretty much means we’d have to do it tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah,” Casey says, and grimaces at Will good-naturedly. “Insane, do you think? Not possible in the timeframe?”
Will considers. He should say yes, that it’s impossible, that it’ll be slapdash and chaotic and no one will remember it fondly and that it would be better not to even try—that’s what he’dusually say—but instead, what comes out is, “Nah. I think we got this.”
Will is not, in fact, sure that they got this. It is, at best, a wildly optimistic summary of his general opinion, and, at worst, an outright lie—but, to his surprise and pleasure, it turns out they do. Meredith handles spreading the word and helps Will figure out who to speak to about bringing food and drinks; everyone Will reaches out to is happy to help, and Will realizes fairly quickly that it’s because Casey was right. People want closure at the end of something that shifts their lives around, even if it was only for a few weeks. People are eager to throw their lot in with anything that feels like a bookend, a way to mark this chapter of upheaval as closed.
Will never had closure when he left Glenriver. He told himself he didn’t need or even want it, that it was pointless to wish for it, that it wasn’t important; he told himself he could draw the line in the sand for himself, and that line could count as enough. He told himself he could carry on without it, and that the yawning, empty space inside himself where he ripped out a section of his internal circuitry so its virus wouldn’t poison the entire machine would knit itself closed, maybe, new sinews weaving together from wire and steel, so long as he didn’t interfere too much.
It never did, though. The hole stayed, sparking and hissing, every bit as impossible to miss as the faded spots of wallpaper in Bill’s bedroom, where paintings used to sit. Will’s staring at it—through it, really—even now.
At least seeing it is better than not seeing it. At least Willcansee it, even if how he does choose to make use of that particular ability is to pretend, immediately and with increasingly poor results, that he can’t. He throws himself into the bonfire preparations instead, zipping around town in the farm’s old pickup truck because it’s easier, with the big bed andeverything, than using his terrible but long-since-jumped rental car. It’s not as nice as Casey’s truck, and makes a wheezing noise sometimes on the big hill on the far side of town, but it feels like an old friend, for all it must have arrived at the farm years after Will left. Its chipped red paint, the way the fake leather peels up off the seats, evokes the oddly specific comfort of certain sorts of wear, the way something can age in the same shape as things did when you were a child. It was Will’s father, after all, who broke this car in, smoothed down the ridges on the radio dial from rolling it under his thumb, picked at the edges of the leather as he sat in the parking lot of the feed store; just because Will wasn’t here to see it doesn’t mean he doesn’t know.
It’s funny, though, after all those years of hearing that he was a Will and not a Bill, after all the heavy, unpleasant conversations about expectations and duty and falling short—it’s funny, how many of the older citizens of Glenriver jump, or put their hands to their chests, or shake their heads when they see Will get out of that truck in one of Bill’s old work shirts. How many of them gasp, or mutter, “The spitting image,” or yell, “Thought you were your old man for a second there—how you been, Will? Long time!”
Will’s not sure if it feels good or bad; it certainly feelssomething, makes some unwieldy, choking emotion bubble and roil within him. He can’t quite tell what would come out of his mouth if he were to let it surface: sobbing or screaming or a long sigh of relief, or maybe reallyuncomfortablelaughter, the kind that goes on far too long.
He keeps it inside, whatever it is. In that, if nothing else, he’s managed to be his father’s son.
But he’s in an odd mood, all told, by the time cars start arriving in the parking lot Friday night. The whole day he’s been manic and macabre by turns, delighted about the party one moment and then gripped with dread the next; tomorrowthe bridge is going to be repaired, and then…then…what? What is Will going todo? He can’t very well continue to live in the house with Casey, avoiding Catherine Rose’s phone calls, until such a time as some convenient representative of the Universal Public Good arrives and says,William Josiah Robertson, I declare you UNFIT to handle conflict. Shut your mouth and step away from the delicate interpersonal situation with your hands up; I am here to relieve you of your duties.
Willwouldbe relieved, honestly, to hand all this off to someone else—it occurs to him, abruptly but quite emphatically, that this would be so much easier with a partner. Not even Casey, necessarily, justsomeone, some other, more objective person whose only remaining parent had not recently shuffled off their mortal coil. Someone to whom Will could go and say,Listen, listen, I know the whole time I lived here, I dreamed about getting away, and the minute I did, I never looked back, but this town isn’t the one I left behind, somehow, and I’m not at all sure I’m the person I was when I walked away, either. Does that make sense, do you think, or am I going insane? Does grief do this, to the best of your knowledge, put a new film over the lens of your life, make everything appear to be a slightly different color? Is this a condition in which someone should make a large real estate deal—probably not, right?Someone to throw this kind of question at would be, honestly, a godsend.
An image of Selma, larger-than-life and looking so irritated that Will actually grimaces at his own imagination, blooms behind his eyes. Swallowing hard, he nods to himself—tomorrow, then. He’ll talk to her tomorrow.
For tonight, he goes to greet Mere, one of the first to arrive, all the kids in tow. She grins at him but is pulled away by Casey before they can talk. Todd gives Will an awkward half hug and then skitters away to talk to Noel, who, to Will’s amazement and deep amusement, blushes tellingly at being approached.The rest of the children are shepherded off by Daphne Cardini-Johnstone, who has emerged from behind the market bakery counter to hold court in the kids’ play area, where a number of members of the Cardini family are keeping a vague eye on the proceedings to ensure none of the town children kill one another or themselves. Hazily, Will finds he remembers this from town gatherings of his own youth, the loose network of Glenriver families who took the “it takes a village” approach. Old Mrs. Cardini, now that Will thinks about it, had bandaged more of his skinned knees when he was a child than his own mother had. Nancy Gunderson, too.
Nancy’s still off in Georgia, but old Mrs. Cardini’s sitting at the playground with Daphne, having arrived about three hours early to poke around the market bakery, pass judgement, and gossip. Will takes her a cup of hot cider and kisses her on the cheek, and she swats him away and says, “Oh goaway, William; ifyou’vegone and become a gentleman, I will die of old age,” but he thinks she’s pleased, even so.
Most of the rest of the town trickles in over the next hour or so, as the sun sets. They are still missing the section of the populace trapped on the other side of the bridge, but before darkness falls, Mere hurries over to Will with a beer in one hand and her phone in the other. When she gets close, she turns the phone proudly to face him. “So, okay, I told Sandy about this idea, and he liked it so much they’re doing one on the other side of the river, too! See?”
Will peers at the screen, a slow grin spreading over his face as he sees the loose circle of tents in the distance, the large pile of dead wood and branches being added to even as he watches. Oddly touched, he says, “God, that’s—amazing, actually? I’m glad he thought of it.”
“Yeah, I liked it, too,” Mere says, shaking her head with a fond smile at the screen before she tucks the phone back in herpocket. Then—maybe, Will thinks with trepidation as it happens, it’s the beer—she throws an arm around him, pulling him in for a tight hug. “I’m glad you came back here, Will,” she whispers, fierce. “Even if you drive away tomorrow and I never hear from you again: Thank youfor coming back.”
“Oh,” Will says, unexpected tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. “That’s… Sure. Of course.” He clears his throat, and then, slightly raggedly, adds, “And you’re not going to—to never hear from me again, God. I’m not a stupid teenager anymore; I know about social niceties now.”
“I’m holding you to that,” Mere warns, stepping back and wiping her own eyes. “See if I don’t!”
Will smiles brightly at her, and opens his mouth to say—oh, he doesn’t know what. He’s as interested as anyone to hear what it’s going to be, whether a promise to return and visit, or a confession that he’s suddenly not sure he wants to sell, or evenleave, at all. Mere isn’t Selma, obviously, but shewasWill’s very first best friend, and he trusted her enough then for it to carry over now, in spite of all the lost years between them. She might be biased towards Casey and Glenriver, but then again, wouldn’t Selma be biased towards Will doing the right thing, thesanething, and sticking with the life he’s spent two decades building in Chicago?
He doesn’t get to find out, anyway, what he would have ended up saying. A hand lands on Will’s shoulder, its grip warm and familiar, and Will’s voice shrivels back down into his throat when he realizes that it’s Casey’s. If nothing else, Will would like to do his very best to avoid discussing his feelings for Casey, which are messy and complicated except in the ways they are upsettingly and graphically simple,in Casey’s actual earshot, so. For the best, really, that the surprise of being grabbed by the man seconds before going maudlin and confessional has left Will feeling as though he swallowed a series of furious frogs.
“Thereyou are,” Casey says, smiling at him, when Will halfturns to face him. Glancing quickly at Mere and then looking back at Will, he adds, “Sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if you’d mind helping me with something?”
“Oh,” Will says, trying to gather himself at speed and finding it a bit like trying to scoop sand with a sieve. “I—sure, yeah. Or, uh. I don’t mind, is what I mean.”
