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No matter how much I don’t want to do it, it might be time.
I open my phone and search “therapists near goldheart ca.”
I scroll through the names and look at their specialties. There’s a good one in Auburn who specializes in grief. My thumb hovers over the phone number, and I just do it.
I get a voicemail recording, and I take a deep breath.
“Hi, my name is Jackson Finch. My wife passed away from leukemia ten years ago, and I’m struggling with moving on. I think I need to speak with someone.”
33
Shiloh
“Oh my God,” I heard Papa say from the door. I’m in the living room, with my current read across my lap, a bowl of grapes within arm’s reach. I crane my neck to see who it is, and then I hear a familiar voice.
“Where is my Shiloh girl?”
“Mom?” I say, standing up. I walk into the foyer, and there’s my mother with my sister following behind, holding lots and lots of luggage.
I dissolve into tears.
“Oh no,” Summer says, walking around Mom, hugging me tightly. I hug my mom too and rub my face when I pull back. I’m not imagining things. My family is here.
“I heard you’re having a hard time,” Mom says. I nod, still crying, as I wipe my face.
It’s been a month of working at the brewery, avoiding Jackson. I love Goldheart, but its townspeople are nosy, and some have started asking me if I’m okay. The Finches all look at me with apologies in their eyes. I was proud of myself that I didn’t cry at all this week. I had treated myself to the book I put to the side. Murder is so comforting.
Now my sister and mother reset my streak, but it’s all worth it.
Speaking of murder, my sister says, “As soon as I get settled, I’m finding this asshole that didn’t want my beautiful, too-good-for-this-earth sister and give him a piece of my mind. Who is he? Where does he live?”
“I appreciate that, Summer, but I’m not telling you.” Summer is two years younger than me, but sometimes it feels like she’s the big sister. She’s told off bullies before and stood up to mean girls. Mark called me one week after we broke up because he received an anonymous glitter bomb with a card.
“He deserved it,” Summer told when I confronted her.
I remember covering my eyes with my hand. “What did it say?”
She crossed her arms. “‘You didn’t deserve her, cunt.’”
Jackson doesn’t deserve my sister’s wrath.
Summer waits for me to say something about Jackson, but Mom picks up their bags and deflects. “Where should we put our stuff?”
“My room,” I say, motioning for them to follow me. The room is small, but I have a queen bed. I’m sure we can all fit, like old times. Growing up, my mom, sister, and I lived in a tiny studio apartment in the middle of midtown Sacramento and owned a beat-up car, and life was wonderful. I learned how to jump a car when I was eight. We all slept in the same bed until I turned thirteen.
“This is so cute,” Summer says, looking at my photos tucked under the elastic on a pink board. She scans it, and I forget until the last minute that there’s a photo of Jackson and me.
It was a shot that Olive got at the Christmas party—Jackson in that horrible sweater and me laughing at something he said. It was slightly blurry, like most kid photos are, but it was the height of our friendship. When we hadn’t screwed it up yet.
My sister is untucking the picture from the elastic as I reach for it.
“Is this him? God, Shiloh, he’sold.”
“He’s thirty-six,” I say, pulling it out of her hand. My cheeks flame bright red as I walk it to my bureau and open my sock drawer.
“I can see where you’re hiding it.”
“I know.” I move socks to the side so the photo can be flush with the bottom and then cover it. Turning, I rest my arm on the top of the bureau. “So, how long are you and Mom staying?”
