Wish You Were Gone(45)

But if he was trying, why wouldn’t he tell her? If she’d known, she could have supported him—been there for him. Had he just gotten in the habit of not telling her anything? Maybe he hadn’t wanted to get her hopes up—had suspected he would fail and didn’t want to see her disappointment. Or maybe keeping secrets was all he knew how to do anymore.

Emma turned the third chip over in her fingers. When could he have possibly earned this? Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he’d just gone to the meeting and claimed he’d been sober for a month. She wouldn’t put it past him. Emma stacked the chips carefully on a low shelf, then pulled herself up. She’d really made a mess of the closet. There were tangled sweaters everywhere, peppered with shoes and sneakers, and several silky ties had slid off their hanging rack to the floor. She felt heavy, suddenly. Like she’d run out of steam.

Then her eyes fell on the drawers. There were only three of them. They were where James had kept his watches and cuff links and a couple of bottles of cologne. Lazily, warily, Emma pulled the top one open. May as well finish the job. The watches were all in their boxes and she lifted each one out and carefully replaced it, finding nothing underneath. She wondered, absently, if Hunter would want any of them. Did kids his age even wear watches anymore? Maybe he’d use them when he was older. When she finally got around to actually cleaning this closet out, she’d save them for him. In the second drawer were the cuff links, and there was nothing interesting there either.

In the bottom drawer, along with the bottles of cologne, were dozens of medals still on their lanyards from the 10K races and half-marathons James used to run. She had no idea he’d saved them. The sight of the bright ribbons brought on another pang of nostalgia. A longing sigh for what might have been. What if he’d chosen his health over his habit? His family over the bottle? Where might she be right now? Where might he be? It was an abyss she refused to dip her toe into, for fear of getting sucked in for all eternity.

She lifted the ribbons in the bottom drawer, half-curious, half-terrified as to what else she might find, and uncovered another cuff link box. Black, with gold lettering: GC JEWELRY. She slowly picked up the box, her pulse doing an awful warning dance that she ignored, and pried the top open. Inside, nestled against black silk, were a pair of cuff links shaped like footballs with tiny diamonds as the lines. Revolting. There was a small card wedged into the top of the box, written in red pen.

For my Valentine… xo, JM

“Mom?”

Emma shoved the cuff links back in the drawer and slammed it. Half a second later, Hunter and Willow were standing there, looking down at her.

“What are you doing?” Hunter asked stiffly.

“I just… figured I’d start packing up some of your dad’s stuff. To donate,” she improvised.

Willow glanced at Hunter, then strolled off across the room—not out, as Emma expected her to do. She paused near Emma’s dresser and began casually opening Emma’s jewelry boxes, as if it were a totally normal activity. Emma shoved herself to her feet.

“Are you kidding?” Hunter demanded. “Already? He just died. We haven’t even had his memorial yet.”

“I don’t know, Hunter. It was just something to do,” Emma said. “I don’t have to. I was just—”

“Whatever,” Hunter said. “Come on, Willow.”

Willow looked up as Hunter stormed out of the room but made no move to follow him. She lifted Emma’s grandmother’s pearls out of her large jewelry box and held them up against her neck, turning sideways to admire herself in the mirror above Emma’s dresser.

“You’ve got some dope stuff, Mrs. Walsh,” she said.

Was the girl mocking her? As long as Emma had known her, Willow had never called her Mrs. Walsh. It was always Emma or, as a joke, Auntie Em.

“Thank you?” Emma said sarcastically. She felt like she was being somehow violated and wanted Willow out of her room. Badly.

“Don’t worry about Hunter,” Willow told Emma, as if she were an older, wiser sister. “He’s just in the anger stage of grief.”

Then she placed the pearls back in the jewelry box, slammed the top down, and walked out.





LIZZIE


Lizzie sat at the kitchen table, going over the planned promotions for the shop leading up to Christmas. If they had good weather for the next few weeks and foot traffic maintained, she could project a profit for the season—but not much of one. All the stars would have to align, and people would need to be in a spending mood. But she chose to remain optimistic. Tonight, anyway. Maybe things weren’t as dire as she thought they were. Maybe Willow could get a scholarship and they wouldn’t have to sell the house.

She sipped her wine and did a few yoga breaths, knowing she was deluding herself, but telling herself it was okay to do that every once in a while. It was, in fact, necessary for her sanity. Besides, things really were looking up in one facet of her life—she had a date. A real, Saturday-night date the following weekend with a guy she liked—a guy with potential. A guy who knew how to bake.

The front door opened and Lizzie heard Willow twirling her keys.

“Hello?” her daughter called.

“In the kitchen!”

Willow appeared, backpack on, gum popping.

“It’s late. Did you eat?”