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By now, my brother correctly interprets my lost-in-space expression. “Is James coming tonight?”
I stall. “What?”
Kurt looks across the dining room. Though I have them over regularly, I’m attempting an actual cocktail party and have managed quite a spread: cheese plates, veggie trays, and assorted drinks. They’re arranged on the lone piece of furniture there—an enormous handmade table delivered by Rusty himself two days ago. He brought it to the door unannounced, with two burly examples of Wyoming’s finest behind him holding the mammoth piece. There was a novel’s worth of words to share—about the fire, how were they doing, was Melly really searching for the girl she used to be, were they staying married—but our interaction was characteristically simple:
“Hey, Russ.”
“Hey, kiddo.”
They set the table by the giant window in the dining room, the one that overlooks the downslope of a hill carpeted in green conifers. With a kiss to my forehead and a simple “Been thinkin’ ’bout you,” he left, and my heart seemed too big for my body.
The walnut gleams in the late-afternoon sun; the top is the most beautiful cross-section of wood I’ve ever seen, with vibrant striations in golds, reds, and deep browns. I was with him when he found it at a lumberyard in Casper, nearly five years ago. I remember standing there with him, staring at the slab of lumber, wondering if we were trying to create the same thing in our head—a piece worthy of it.
He’s had so many chances to transform it into something breathtaking for the entire world to see on television, but that’s Rusty, I guess: waiting for the perfect reason to use it. Never rushing and never caring about impressing anyone. Because I know he used to love to hide messages, I knew to look: on the underside, the words We love you, Carey-girl are inscribed in Rusty’s unmistakable carving style.
Kurt rephrases the question to bring my attention back: “Was James invited?”
“No—what? No.” I chew my lip, ignoring my brother’s pressing gaze. I’d much rather let my mind wander than discuss the party I somehow decided I was ready to host.
I’ve planned a lot of cocktail hours. You’d think I’d have this down to a science, but my stomach is a rolling boil of nerves. I wonder if it’s a good sign that my first reaction to the thought of having James here is a pulse of relief because I know he would step up without question and help. But the truth is … “I’m not even sure he’s around here anymore.”
With these words, my relief is doused with a flush of dread. What if I’m right? After all this work I’ve done to process things in sessions with Debbie, have I missed the real window to talk to James about what happened?
I think my brother might be setting up to drop some wisdom, but he just lets out a “Huh,” scratches his belly, and heads to the kitchen.
Peyton and Annabeth arrive at six exactly—I get the feeling they were sitting in their car, excitedly waiting for the hour to turn over. I’m a lucky woman, I think. Then immediately: At twenty-six, that might be the first time I thought of myself as a woman.
Annabeth bursts inside, pulling me into a hug. Peyton waits a few beats for Annabeth to let go and finally just makes do with putting her arms around both of us. I notice they’ve brought gifts: flowers, a set of wineglasses, and a tablecloth—none of which they bothered to wrap. And now I feel both lucky and tragic, because my two friends just saw me two days ago and here they are, embracing me with a tight, lingering warmth that tells me they weren’t sure I’d ever be in my own place, throwing a party.
“Okay, everyone,” I say into Annabeth’s shoulder, “I’m getting the sense that you were starting to worry about me.”
With a laugh that doesn’t dispute this, they step back and look around expectantly. I’m grateful they don’t point out that I have made very little progress on the décor, even for the sake of a party.
Kurt emerges from the kitchen and hands them their preferred drinks: a gin and tonic for Peyton, and a pilsner for Annabeth. With mumbled thanks, they each take a sip and silence swallows us.
For a tiny beat, I miss Melly’s exuberant hostessing skills.
“It occurs to me that I have more liquor bottles than furniture,” I say to no one in particular.
“And you’re not even really a drinker,” Peyton says.
“You’d think for someone with a design background, decorating your own house would be the fun part.” Annabeth looks at me. “And yet.”
“And yet,” I agree.
“Why do I get the sense that you’re dreading it?”
I shrug, even though the answer isn’t really a mystery. “I only ever had a bedroom to furnish and was never there to enjoy it anyway. This feels … bigger.”
