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I feel the smile slide down my face as I take in her expression, the intensity of her focus on the carton of ice cream. “What’s wrong?”
She blinks a few times, as if when she looks again, the carton in my hand might be something else. “That’s mint chocolate chip.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No, it’s just—that was Brandon’s favorite flavor. We always kept it in the freezer, and when we were in college, he’d eat an entire carton after exams ended to celebrate.” Her attention is fixed on the carton in my hands, as if it were a bomb. As if it might explode and destroy everything.
“You know, I remember Brandon from high school. Not well, or anything. But I remember he always hung out by the basketball courts. He and his friends tried to steal our ball. They’d knock over our water bottles, stupid pranks. Now that I think of it”—I feel my face pucker as the memories float in—“he was kind of a punk.”
Hope makes a sound that’s half laugh, half cry. “He kind of was in high school. He grew out of it.”
“He had to, if you married him.”
“Yeah,” she says, her eyes darkening with whatever memory my ill-considered monologue ignited.
“I wish I had gotten to know him better,” I say and mean it. I’d like to meet anyone who made Hope smile the way I saw her smile in those old photos with Brandon.
“He would have liked you. I bet you guys would have been friends.” Her attention returns to the carton melting in my hands. “Thanks for sharing that with me—about Brandon being a punk. Everyone talks about him like he was perfect, and it’s nice to talk about him like he was a real person again.”
“Anytime.” I spin around and notice that the kitchen was reorganized again. “If I can find a trash can, I’ll get rid of this.”
“Wait. Don’t.” She steps toward me hesitantly, as if the carton might take flight from my hands. “I think ... I think I’d really love to eat late-night mint–chocolate chip ice cream again.”
27
HOPE
We need to talk. Please.
I expected this text.
If I’m being honest, I’ve been expecting this text for a long time.
Though that doesn’t make it any easier to respond.
I read Logan’s message for the dozenth time and am no closer to deciphering his tone. He seemed so angry and has been avoiding me at home. But theplease... that doesn’t sound angry. It sounds ... like a text message, and I need to stop treating text messages like real communication.
His next text arrives in my inbox while I’m still working out a response.I have something that belongs to you. I’m at my mom’s house.
I delete what I was going to write and type a new response:I’ll be there in twenty minutes.
Driving up to Logan’s parents’ house, which is the house he and Brandon grew up in, feels like driving up to a memory. Even though Brandon’s mom painted the formerly yellow house a modern blue gray, it still feels like an echo of a life long gone. The trellis that I used to climb to reach Brandon’s room is still there. The pond behind the house where Brandon and I hunted for frogs is still there. My house—or the house that was mine before my dad left and we moved—is still next door.
It’s all still there. Just smaller than I remember.
Logan’s waiting at the door when I arrive. He’s wearing Brandon’s we-need-to-talk expression beneath Brandon’s faded Yankees cap. “Thanks for coming.”
“Thanks for asking me.” My throat feels thick, and it’s an effort not to turn and run. I force myself to make eye contact. “What are you doing at your old house?”
He glances over his shoulder at the old Victorian. “Tanya and I are thinking of buying this place from my parents. Since Brandon died, they never come up from Florida, so it’s just sitting here empty, and it’s bigger than our house now. More yard space for family one day.”
“Oh.” A rainbow of emotions overwhelms my nervous system. According to the support groups and social media memes, widows are supposed to be good at navigating two opposing emotions at once—grief and joy, love and loss. I haven’t gotten the hang of it yet. “Congratulations,” I say and hope I sound genuine.
He toes a loose paving stone with his shoe. “Nothing’s definite, obviously.”
“No—don’t—you don’t have to do that. You don’t have to act like this isn’t an amazing thing for you because you think it’ll hurt me.”
“You’re my sister, Hope. That was true even before you married my brother, and the last thing I want to do is hurt you.” An expression darts across Logan’s face. It’s there and gone so fast that if I didn’t know Logan, I might have missed it. Or misread it.
