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“Doessheknow that? Because she sounded like she was envisioning all sorts of things.”
My hands slowed. “She knows,” I managed. “She’s just doing her job.”
After another long, searching look, William finally nodded. He patted me on the back once we’d tossed the last piece of garbage from the day, then twirled his truck keys around his pointer finger as he joined the rest of the departing crew.
I took a seat in front of the carriage house to remove my dusty boots, watching them as they walked back to their trucks, laughing and telling stories. Taking long drags off cigarettes now that they could light up again.
Someone pulled a small cooler out of the bed of his truck. He tossed a can of beer to one of his friends, and they settled against their vehicles to enjoy the summer evening.
The sound of their laughter made my hands slow as a wave of grief crashed over me. It was the unexpected timing of it, the bigness of how it swamped me, that had my skin feeling a little clammy, goose bumps tugging at the back of my neck.
Maybe it was the smell of the air or the music or the sight of friends unwinding easily at the end of their day.
Maybe it was all those things, but it snapped a trigger that I hadn’t realized was locked and loaded.
Chris and I had lived together for all four of our years at Michigan, and those first few weeks back on campus in the heat of summer brought a different sort of energy than any other time of the year. We used to sit outside, grill our dinner with some teammates, and drink beer while neighbors filtered over.
And it wasn’t like I didn’t miss the camaraderie of my professional teammates. I did. But those college years were different—a combination of school and friends and freedom. Football was played out of a love for the sport, not because of a paycheck.
A radio blared from one of the trucks in the front yard, and the song that came on had my bones feeling tight and achy, another pressing wave of something hot against my chest bones that I desperately wantedto keep locked in. It pushed against my ribs, insistent and much, much stronger than I was ready for. I couldn’t remember the words to that song, couldn’t say who the artist was.
But I remembered it all the same.
I closed my eyes and tried to force something else into my head. Anything else.
But Chris was lodged at the forefront.
For weeks and weeks, I’d been playing house. Thinking about kissing a beautiful woman who’d dug her way under my ribs. Picking tiles and teasing her about paint. Watching her talk about Christmas trains and weddings on the water while I got an immediate vision of her in a white veil standing by the bay.
And all of it because he was gone.
Because he was dead.
I stood from the chair and kept my gaze away from the guys as I escaped into the carriage house. The last fucking thing I wanted was to burst into tears in front of a group of men I didn’t know, still cooling down from the day of backbreaking work they’d just done.
I hadn’t even cried at the funeral. It was almost like my brain had shut down the bone-splintering reality of what was unfolding in front of me long enough to get through it.
Once inside the house, I braced my hands on the counter and tried to count to ten, breathing deeply with each expanding movement of my chest.
It wasn’t because I didn’t want to be here anymore; I’d made peace with the reasons I’d decided to stay.
But I shouldn’t have been the one doing these meetings. Making these decisions.
Shouldn’t have been the one talking to electricians about outlets for Christmas trees or trains or how to make the holidays in that house magical.
None of this should’ve been my responsibility, because my friend and his wife should’ve been shopping for tile samples and arguing about tiny couches and budgets and what kinds of things could or should happen in this house during all the years after I was done with it.
I’d allowed this place to become a massive fucking distraction—allowedherto be my distraction.
I missed him.
I missed him.
And I was so fucking pissed that he was gone. That they both were.
I was not the guy to do this for them. To try and figure out how to honor their memory. I could hardly figure out what I was supposed to be doing if it wasn’t this, but for some reason, the idea that Chris had sat down and decided I was the first person he’d trust with taking care of this massive thing felt a bit like sharp, rusty iron clawing at the edges of my lungs.
Because for the last few weeks, I’d started imagining the Campbell House as mine.
