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It’s raining outside, and I hope we get snow soon. Thanksgiving is in a few days, but I don’t want to think about that because then I’d have to think about Mom and Dad, and Jase and Sam too.
Sam.
It’s been six years since he died. Six years. I close my eyes and try to remember what he looked like, but his image blurs with Jase’s. No wonder—they were twins. They looked so much alike. Still, it hurts that without photos and videos, it’s hard to remember what he looked like, whether he wore his hair as messy as Jase’s and whether his smile was always a little more crooked than Jase’s or if it was the other way around.
Maybe I’m remembering him wrong, I don’t know.
I grab my phone, scroll through my contacts, and call a certain number for the first time in ages.
“Lia?” Jase says, taken aback, when he answers after the third ring. He wasn’t expecting my call, which doesn’t surprise me. We exchanged a few messages this morning because he wanted to know how the conversation with Pearson went. Pretty well, I replied. But we still have to wait for a decision.
“Hey.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine.”
“Are you sure? You don’t sound like everything’s fine.”
I get a warm feeling because he thinks he can tell how I’m doing from my voice. Another step forward. One of many in the last few days.
“I’ve been thinking . . .” I begin hesitantly.
“About what?”
“Thanksgiving. Mom. Dad.”
“What about it?” He tries to sound detached, but I can hear the tension in his voice.
“It feels strange not to spend the holiday with them.”
“I’d say you get used to it, but that’s probably not what you want to hear, is it?”
“Not exactly,” I admit.
“Do you want to celebrate Thanksgiving with Mom and Dad?”
“I don’t know. Dad hasn’t contacted me. And Mom . . . she’s tried to call me, but . . .”
“You want her to come to you first,” he says, finishing my sentence. He knows what I’m thinking because he knows the feeling.
I nod, even though he can’t see me.
“She was here, did you know? When you and Katie were at the hospital to see Susannah, she was here.”
My heart skips a beat. “Really? You’re not just saying that?”
“No. She was here. She wanted to talk to you.”
“How do you know that?”
“She came to me to ask where you were.”
There are two or three beats of silence between us. “I don’t know what to say,” I murmur, overwhelmed. I still feel a little broken.
“Are you going to talk to her?”
“I think so, but I don’t want to . . .” I take a deep breath. “I don’t want it to be the same old thing again.”
