Sign Here(36)

So when the day came, she got herself to the church—leaving a note for Silas, an appropriate lie followed by a line of x’s—but she couldn’t get herself to go inside. She turned off the sedan in the parking lot and watched, sitting low, as people filtered in. She had put on a baseball cap, but it made her feel ridiculous. Like a teenager, or, worse, an unimaginative woman trying not to be recognized.

Twenty minutes after the meeting began, Lily, still in her car, turned the key in the ignition and told herself she was going home. She pulled out of her spot and drove the length of the church, thinking that if she got on Maple, she could stop by the dry cleaner’s. But that’s when she saw him through the large windows.

Gavin stood at the front of the room, behind a wooden podium. The audience, on plastic chairs in a semicircle, was small but rapt. Sunlight beamed through the old paned windows to fill the remaining space. His face was drawn, and after each of his sentences all the heads in the room nodded, so that together they created a rhythm. Even then, just her second time seeing him all grown up, his face hit like the sweetest of punches to her gut. She was caught off guard by the force with which she wanted to reach out and touch him, and she had to grip the steering wheel instead.

Lily pulled into a spot out of view and crossed the spit of manicured lawn to stand next to the open windows of the church. She leaned her back against the bricks warmed by the sun and closed her eyes.

“Almost two decades ago, my twin sister, Sarah, was murdered. I know that it’s been so long because of the calendar on my phone, and because when I look in the mirror, I am not the teenage boy I was on that day. Not nearly.”

The crowd chuckled kindly.

“But, to be honest, the most immediate part of me has no idea it’s been so long since she died. The most immediate, accessible part of me—the me in my center, the fundamental me that hasn’t been touched by time—every day, every minute, learns and relearns over and over that she is gone. That is why I am so grateful for this group. The people in this room come from all over— different hometowns, different families, different identities. But we all share one fact in common: here, we are free to release the constant need to make other people comfortable with our pain. We can stop pretending it gets better, because it doesn’t. That doesn’t mean time doesn’t change things, not at all. It doesn’t mean I haven’t had a full life. But what it does mean is this: even though it’s been so many years, I still lose my sister every single day.”

To hear him talk about his loss in such an open, raw way was unlike anything Lily had ever known. Like it wasn’t a sore to be hidden, something that made him wounded, weak, less than. Like loss didn’t have to be lonely.

“Would I rather have her back instead? Of course. But I don’t have that kind of power. The power I do have, however, is this. Standing here with you all, telling my story. Hoping that maybe just one of you will feel seen for the first time since you lost someone, that you will come back and sit with us. It’s not much, but it’s all I’ve got. And I find myself on this day, all these years after the worst day of my life, grateful for it.”

The crowd clapped, and Lily stayed perfectly still, both sad and happy, and warm all over. She couldn’t remember the last time she let herself feel the contentment in sadness. She never let her own sadness bloom enough to produce that particular fruit. For a few minutes, she stayed there, her back against the warm brick, her eyes closed, and let herself feel it.

Then the church door groaned, and her eyes snapped open. The chattering women walking out went silent when they saw her. Lily reached for her hat, grateful for what she had, just moments ago, felt embarrassed by. But it didn’t matter; it was too late.

Theirs was a small town, and she was the Lily Thompson.

She didn’t bother to smile at the women, the way she did when she was younger, so at least they couldn’t say she was rude. By then, Lily knew they would say whatever they wanted. Instead, she pushed off the church wall and turned away from them, knowing she’d have to do a loop of the parking lot to get to her car but also knowing it was worth it. Still, she could hear them whisper.

“That’s Lily Thompson, Silas Harrison’s wife. What on earth is she doing here?” And then, as if they all didn’t already know, “Her brother-in-law was Philip Harrison. The one who killed Sarah.”





PEYOTE





“WELL, THAT WAS A motherfucking rush,” Cal said, wiping blood from her cheek. It was our third war zone of the day, and every inch of me was coated in a thin layer of sand.

“That was a good haul,” I said, calculating our deals on my tablet. Four in total. Not bad at all.

“Want to see if we can beat those cadets at poker before we go?”

I shook my head. “Let’s quit while we’re ahead.”

“Come on, we could make one hell of a bet!”

I knew that Cal’s childhood was traumatic, to say the least. But there was no denying the sheer joy she got from war. It made me wonder if her father had, in fact, seen something in her, something he attempted to nourish and encourage the way some parents coach their kids’ Little League teams. I couldn’t tell, as I watched her eyes glitter in the lingering grenade smoke, if her love of the bloody came from nature or nurture, or some twisted combination. But it was clear that here, she thrived.