Page 61

By the time I was done, the potato salad looked respectable. I covered it, slipped it into the fridge, and checked the clock.

If I didn’t start getting ready now, I’d end up throwing on leggings and a hoodie and hiding in a corner while everyone else looked alive.

I went to my bedroom and opened the closet.

The dress hung there like a dare.

A burnt orange, online impulse purchase at two in the morning on a night when I’d been feeling reckless and optimistic in equal measure. The reviews had promised it would “compliment a woman’s body” and “make you feel like a sun goddess.”

Sure. Or it would make me feel like a traffic cone.

But when I’d tried it on two days ago—just to see—I’d stared at myself in the mirror for a long time.

It fit.

Not the way things fit before. Not the old familiar lines of my body. But it fit the version of me that existed now. The one that still needed to eat more, but still had a softer belly. The color made my skin look warm instead of washed out. The neckline hinted at cleavage without feeling like a billboard. The skirt flowed when I moved, brushing my knees.

I took it down gently and slipped it on.

A knock sounded on my mental door, the one labeled ARE YOU BEING RIDICULOUS? I ignored it.

If Zarek came, I wanted… I didn’t want revenge. Not exactly. I just wanted him to see me and remember that I was more than a reminder of grief, I once was his joy.

I wanted to knock his eyes out of his head.

I added earrings, a bracelet, and the pair of sandals that made my legs look like I’d maybe done a squat at some point in the last year. I did my makeup slowly—liner, mascara, a sweep of bronzer, a lip color that wasn’t quite brave enough to be red but was definitely more than ChapStick.

When I was done, I stared at my reflection.

“Okay,” I told the woman looking back at me. “Barbecue time.”

Whether or not he showed, I was going.

Because my life was bigger than just my marriage.

Bigger than the man who had been my best friend since I was seven years old.

But damn, I sure hoped he’d be there. I needed to see his face.

Trenda and Simon’s backyard looked like a Norman Rockwell painting had collided with a Pinterest board.

Kids ran everywhere—Bella shrieking with laughter as she was either being chased or chasing the Drakos twins around the swing set, neighborhood little ones darting between folding chairs and coolers. The grill smoked contentedly at the far end of the yard where Simon, Aiden, and my big brother Drake were arguing about the proper way to flip a burger. Folding tables sagged under the weight of potato salad (mine), coleslaw (Zoe’s), baked beans (Maddie’s), and approximately fourteen bags of chips because no one in this town knew how to do “enough.”

It smelled like charcoal, sunscreen and summer.

I stood in the middle of it all, my burnt orange dress swishing around my legs, holding a plastic cup of sweet tea and trying not to get kidnapped.

“Aunt Chloe!” Holden skidded to a stop in front of me, sneakers digging into the grass. His six-year-old face was flushed, blonde curls damp with sweat, blue eyes wide with urgent purpose. “Come climb the tree with us!”

Behind him, Zephyr—four, freckled, and sticky with what I hoped was Popsicle juice—bounced up and down. “Tree! Tree! Aunt Chloe, please, please, pleeeease.”

I glanced across the yard.

The big sycamore at the back of the property spread its branches like an invitation, low limbs perfect for little hands and feet. Two makeshift tire swings hung from one side.

“Buddy,” I said, crouching down to Holden’s eye level, “I would love to, but I’m wearing a dress.”

“So?” he demanded.