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Impulsively, I reach out and hug him. His arms wrap around me, and he gives me a fatherly squeeze.
When I step back, I tilt my head, refusing to let go of my first question. “So, why were you here on a Saturday morning?”
“About that.” Dipping a hand into his pocket, he clears his throat, then takes something out. His fingers curl around a small cloth bag with a little ribbon cinching it closed. “I…found this a few years ago. Well, Liz found it when she was going through some—” His voice catches, but he must swallow past the pain, since he adds, “Some things. I held onto it, but I thought you might want to have it. I didn’t connect the dots at the time, but after the other night and what you said, I started thinking about the past, and about things that I missed. I’ve been thinking about that a lot since we spoke. And then I remembered…you and Willa used to give these to each other. I don’t even know why. I just know you did.”
Without even looking inside the bag, I know what’s there. My fingers tingle with hope. He hands it to me, and I open it and fish out the silver anklet.
Daisy charms dangle on it. Willa’s favorite flowers. Wild daisies for my wild-child sister. “I’ll always hear you coming now,” I say quietly, a little mesmerized as I stare at the silver bracelet I gave to her.
My dad’s brow knits in question. “What do you mean?”
I look up.
His eyes flicker with curiosity. He so clearly wants to know something about his other daughter—my best friend. To learn something new about her. I can give him that. I’m theonlyone who can give him that.
“It was this thing we did when we gave each other these ankle bracelets,” I say, eager to share at last. “We pretended they meant different things. LikeI can hear you sneaking into my room to take my lipstickorI’m going to steal Mom’s dark chocolate. They were inside jokes. It was just…this thing we did.”
His smile tells me he likes knowingthis thing. “Thanks for sharing that.”
Memories are all we have, and so we keep them alive in our own ways. Sometimes, we can keep them alive together.
I clutch the jewelry, this piece of Willa, tighter. “Let’s keep talking about her,” I say, my throat catching.
“Yes. Let’s do that.…Jules.”
It’s rare when he uses my name. It feels like starting over.
EPILOGUE: THE STARS AND THE FLOWERS
Jules
That afternoon, I go with my boyfriend to Little Friends to adopt a cute long-haired dachshund mix that Finn names Tiramisu.
In the evening, as Finn’s making dinner, I hang out with Zach in the little backyard as he tries to teach the tiny girl to sit.
“Sit, Tira—” he stops, then starts again. “Sit, Tirami—”
I chuckle under my breath.
Frustrated, but not with the pooch, Zach straightens his spine, holds out a treat for her and says, “Sit…Captain Dog.”
A few more attempts and the dog is sitting and she has a new name. When I go inside to help Finn, I come up behind him, and give him a kiss on the neck. “Guess what? Your son renamed the dog.”
Finn gives me a look likeno way. “He did?” He sounds crestfallen.
“Yes, way,” I say, then I tap his chest. “And because you’re you, you’re not going to have a single issue with it.”
I’m right.
Later that night, when I’m home at my apartment—there will be time later for sleepovers—Finn texts me a photo of a tuckered out pup snoozing next to an equally tired boy. It’s captionedYou were right. Here’s Captain Dog.
When I see Shira that week, we talk about what’s happening in my relationship and she nods, absorbing it. “It sounds like this feels like a really healthy relationship for you,” she says, and that’s good enough for me. “When you’re ready, I still think we should talk more about what may have set your anxieties in motion. The loss of your sister.”
She’s right. We should talk about it. And so, I do.
* * *
A few days later, I’m in the small theater in our Opening Number offices, finishing a screening of the first episode ofThe Rendezvouswith all the key players—Bridger, Solange, and several other producers. When it’s over, everyone claps, but Solange quickly quiets the applause and asks for feedback in a few key areas.
