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Our steps slow until we stop in front of the yellow house. My eyes trace the familiar outline of the cottage my parents bought when I was in seventh grade. Lots of summers in rentals—mostly on Lake Paulson—and then five here.
It’s annoying—how easy it is to recall what we’re hoping to forget, but how hard it is to remember what we’re desperate to. I tear my eyes away from the cheerful yellow, glancing at the Halifaxes’ blue house next door and then at Drew.
“My evening plans begin and end with drinking tequila.” I blurt out the sentence. “If you feel like hanging out, I have plenty…” My voice trails as I glance down, watching water as it continues to drip from my hair in a steady stream onto the bits of gray and white shells.
“I need to put these groceries in the fridge. Then, I’ll come over.” Drew’s response is immediate. And sincere, it seems.
But I try not to focus on those details. I try to act like his response doesn’t matter to me one way or the other, even as I feel relief erase uncertainty. Drinking alone no longer sounds like the ideal evening, if the alternative is his company.
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay,” Drew echoes.
Then, he’s walking away, toward the blue house next door.
I trudge toward the yellow cottage, in no hurry despite the ongoing downpour. Walking toward a moment you’ve actively avoided isn’t an easy task. I’ve been dreading this as much as Amelia’s wedding. For years, I’ve known there would be a moment where I’d walk inside 23 Ashland Avenue again. I’m just unprepared for it to bethismoment.
I pass my parked car and approach the front stairs, my steps slowing the closer I come until I’m at a standstill a few feet from the first step. I study the front door for a few minutes, barely aware of the rain dripping down my face and soaking my shirt. The paper bag I’m holding is damp, liable to disintegrate soon.
But I don’t move.
