Page 173 of Love Felt Like This

“I’m not going away forever,” I say. “I’ll be back.”

“Not if you get the show.”

I laugh. “I’ll still be back. I have to get the rest of my stuff.”

“Be safe.”

“I’ll tell the pilot my mom says so.”

Nana stands in the corner of the den wearing her thick crocheted sweater, next to Uncle Greg, who fumbles through his cargo pants pockets looking for keys.

“How warm is California again?” Nana asks, pulling her sweater tighter.

“Warmer than here.”

“Then pack me up while you’re at it.”

“You’ll only fit if you take off the sweater,” I say.

“I’m keeping this. Maybe next time, then.”

I imagine Nana curled into my suitcase, grinning up at me when I unzip it back in LA. Part of me wishes that were possible.

It’s not that I’m dreading California, but something about this visit felt different. I want my family. I want my brother’s video games playing in the background and to eat Greg’s strawberry cakes. I’ll miss the creaks of the hardwood and the bite of morning cold. I used to hate winter. But with Griffin and Ava…it wasn’t so bad. There were pancakes and coffee and fireside chats under quilts. There was the smell of snow in Griffin’s beard and the sound of Ava’s bubbling giggles.

But these months were an anomaly, and I need to remember that. Even if I stayed, it wouldn’t feel the same without Griffin and Ava. It won’t even be similar when the three of us are back in LA. If our delayed texts are any indication, he has a nonnegotiable work life, and I do too.

The question that snags in my brain too often lately rears its ugly head again: How could we possibly make this work?

Greg grabs a hoodie from the couch and shoves his head through the top. He emerges with wild hair, which he immediately covers with a beanie.

“All right,” he says, “if we don’t leave now, we’ll hit traffic near the airport.”

Mom and Dad stand off to the side with weak smiles. Normally they’d drive, but they’ve got to work. Why does this feel like yet another rushed goodbye? Even when I hugged Rob before he caught the school bus this morning (and held tight until he had to squirm away laughing), the time felt too short.

“Tell Griffin we said hi,” Mom says.

The name alone sends an arrow through my chest.

“I’ll tell him you’ve sent pancakes in spirit,” I say.

“And give this to Ava, will you?”

Mom extends a small toy car toward me—the one with the red convertible top that Ava played with each day. I smile to myself. Griffin always said his daughter had expensive taste. I roll it around on my palm, holding my choked sigh.

Ava still feels here and yet so far away. She’s in the toys hidden in crevices of the kitchen or the booster seat Mom has yet to place back in the attic. We still see her face often—just not in the way we’d like. Ava is in every blurry candid picture on every social media website, looking more akin to an elusive Bigfoot than a child. We scroll through them at dinner as a family, giving varying looks of disgust.

Ava deserves better than this.

Mom vowed to find out who the culprit is and ban them from the restaurant. Nana knows enough gossip to be lethal, and she’s threatened to spread their private issues like wildfire. Then Greg said something about a special set of skills, and we all laughed, but part of me thinks he isn’t joking.

The nosy cars outside our driveway left a week ago, when they realized Griffin was back in LA and we couldn’t give them any new information or photos. It’s been too quiet ever since, with a silence so loud I swear I’m hearing lingering child giggles in my sleep.

“Finch is picking you up at the airport when you get there?” Nana asks.

“If he can get there in time,” I joke. “He drives slow. But I think he left yesterday morning, so he should just barely make it.”

Nana smiles. “Good man. You be nice to him.”