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“It was. Early morning breakfasts, full day of presentations, and then dinners and networking till late.” Fuck, when did I become such a good liar? “It’s a good thing you missed this one. I hardly had two seconds to myself.”
“Yeah, I thought it might be something like that. You didn’t call.”
“I’m sorry. I would have called if I could.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re home now.”
“Do you mind if I take a quick shower?” I showered just before we left, but now I have this sudden urge to scrub clean every single spot Justine touched. As if it would clean me from my sins.
“Can it wait a few minutes? I have something for you.”
“You do?”
She nods and grabs a little box wrapped in blue paper from the coffee table. Biting her lip, she hesitates before getting up and walking to me.
“I found this a while back and wanted to give it to you for our anniversary.”
The reminder is a cold slap of reality. I’ve been so wrapped up in Justine I’ve completely forgotten.
She takes a deep breath, her eyes fixed on the present in her hand. She smiles, but it’s not a smile I’ve seen before. Her lips are tipped up, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. The look in them is…bittersweet.
The irrational fear I felt earlier morphs into little tendrils of dread snaking through me, crawling up my spine and settling in the pit of my stomach with a sense of doom.
“When I saw it, I thought it was a sign, but now it just feels like something you should have.”
She shrugs, her hand clenching around it, but then she thrusts it at me and walks away without looking at me. I stare at it as if I’m holding a viper in my hand. The wrapping paper is a bright blue. My favorite color. An image of Justine’s eyes flashes through my mind, and I blink quickly to banish it from my mind. Is it possible that I can feel any shittier than I feel at this moment? I want to yell at her to take it back, that I don’t deserve it, but I’m a coward. Instead, I tear off the paper to reveal a little box. I open the lid, and everything around me stills. I blink a few times, willing my mind to catch up with what my eyes are seeing. I’m scared to touch it, scared that it’s a figment of my imagination.
Moving without thought, I sink down on the couch, and my hands are shaky when I reach in and take it out, my fingers tracing the crudely carved Q on the hilt of the little pocket knife. It can’t be. It simply can’t be. But it is.
It had belonged to Grandpa Joe. I had always admired it, always begging him to let me play with it. He always refused, saying it wasn’t a toy but something a man should handle responsibly.
Then, one summer, on my thirteenth birthday, he gave it to me, saying I was old enough and responsible enough to take care of it. I felt like he’d given me the moon, and the first thing I did was carve my initial on the hilt, right next to his.
I carried it with me everywhere.
One day we had just gotten to the dam after a long day of blueberry picking. It was our ritual. Pick blueberries until we were hot and sweaty, our fingers stained blue. Then cycle to the dam for a swim. I reached into my pocket to take it out before jumping into the water, but it wasn’t there. I went hot, then cold, frantically digging through both my pockets, unable to believe it wasn’t there. I was always so careful with it. When I couldn’t find it, I screamed so loud that Bailey jumped with fright. She listened with dread when I stammered out that it was gone. That it must have fallen out of my pocket on the ride over. Then we both scrambled, frantically searching everywhere. We must have spent weeks combing that dirt road but could never find it. I was devastated by the loss but eventually gave up looking.
I gave up, but Bailey never did. She would disappear all the time, and I always knew I’d find her on that dirt road, on her hands and knees, searching for the knife. Up to the day Grandpa died and we stopped going, she searched for it.
I tighten my hand, the edges of it digging into my flesh. Dad sold everything Grandpa owned. The only value Grandpa’s possessions had was the dollar amount attached to it. He didn’t let me keep a thing. At least now I have something small of his.
“Where did you get this?” I ask, stepping into the bedroom.
“At Second Hand Treasures. Mr. Thomas called. Said he’d gotten a few books I might be interested in,” she says without looking at me, continuing to fold clothes. “Normally, I’d just grab the books and leave, but something drew me to the display cases, and there it was, nestled amongst a few other things.”
She takes a deep breath, wiping the corner of her eye. I’m so dumbstruck that I can only stare at her.
“I barely dared hope when I asked if I could see it, but a part of me just knew. And then, seeing the Q, I thought it was fate.”
“But how? How did it get there?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. Maybe you didn’t lose it on that dirt road. Maybe you misplaced it in the house somewhere and the new owners found it.”
I look at Bailey, swallowing heavily. “Even back then, you loved me so much you never gave up looking for it.”
She nods her head. “Of course, I didn’t. Losing it hurt you so bad, and I loved you. I didn’t want anything to hurt you.”
“It’s just right that you’re the one who found it,” I whisper, forcing the words through the tightness in my throat. If someone stabbed me in the heart right now, I’d feel less pain than I’m feeling now.
