Consolation (Consolation Duet #1)(76)

“It’s going to be fine,” I say, wiping my wet cheeks as I pull away from her.

“It is. It is. Wyatt wouldn’t want us to break down over a house.”

“No, he would definitely think we’re dumb for mourning a structure,” I say with a small laugh. If it were up to Wyatt, people would live in tents and bathe in rainwater.

“Yeah, and he would have cut the electricity on this place two months ago since you’ve been eating takeout anyway,” she adds.

We shake our heads, new tears forming as the laughter dies and silence settles around us.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay with Phillip and me?” she asks, as we walk from room to room, making sure nothing is left out. The realtor is going to start showing the house tomorrow, and it needs to be perfect for potential buyers.

“No. Victor would be highly offended if I didn’t take him up on his offer. He would probably start bringing up my not wanting to go to the same college as him, not liking the same football team, and the fact that I never paid up and did his laundry for a year that time in high school. I think that’s why he’s so eager to have me move in with him, actually.”

Felicia’s shoulders shake as she laughs. “Well, tell him I said hello, and invite him to dinner with us on Sunday. We’d love to have him over!”

“Sure,” I say, my smile disappearing as I notice the sandals on the floor.

“You want me to take those, or do you want to keep them?”

“I . . .” I pause to take a shaky breath. “Will you take them?”

I don’t think I can bear to look at them every day in a new place. I’m already keeping all of Wyatt’s t-shirts, and it’s not like the sandals fit me—they’re like five sizes too big for my feet—but they’re his favorite. Were. They were his favorite. That’s something my therapist had me work on—speaking of Wyatt in the past tense. Sometimes I cringe when I do it, but I’ve gotten better. For a while, I was living this false reality where Wyatt was away on a business trip or something. He loved to travel alone and let the different cultures inspire his paintings. After a month, I started accepting that he wasn’t coming back. After three, at the request of my therapist, I started putting his things in boxes so that I wouldn’t have the constant reminder.

Putting them away didn’t do much. The house was a reminder, and our art studio couldn’t be packed up either. It was something I had to learn to live with . . . being without him. After six months, I was able to walk in and out of both places without having my heart squeeze in my chest every time. And now, a year later, I think I’m ready to move on. If Wyatt’s sudden death taught me anything, it was that life is short, and we need to live it to the fullest. It’s something I understand, but still struggle to follow through with some days.

“Honey, everything he left behind is yours, you know that,” Felicia says. I don’t even realize that I’m still crying, until I taste the salt of tears on my lips. I try to thank her, but the words stay lodged in my throat under the boulder that’s settled there.

After one last look around, we hug, and I promise to see her on Sunday. I glance over a shoulder as I walk to the car, letting my heart squeeze one last time before I get in and drive away. The memories . . . the comfort . . . the past . . . all become a distant picture in the rearview mirror as I head to my brother’s house. I’m running through a mental checklist of things I have to do, when a ringing phone cuts into my thoughts.

“Hey, how’d it go?” Mia asks in greeting.

“It was okay. A little sad, but not terrible.”


“Sorry I couldn’t be there. Did Felicia come to pick up some of his things? How is she doing these days?”

“Good. She looks good.”

“Are we still going out tomorrow night?” Mia asks slowly, treading water.

“As long as we stick to one bar, I’ll go. I’m not in the mood for bar hopping and doing the college girl thing you like to do.”

Mia never shed her wild side persona when we graduated and started living our “grown-up lives.” As much as I love hanging out with her, replenishing my liver with an insane amount of water after drowning it in alcohol the night before isn’t something I can do every week, like she does.

“Okay, no bar hopping. I have a brunch date on Saturday morning anyway and can’t afford to look like crap, so we’ll take it easy.”

“A date?” I ask with a frown, as I pull into my brother’s driveway.

“Blind date. His name is Todd. He’s a curator at The Pelican. Maria seems to think we’d be perrrfect together,” she says, rolling her R’s exaggeratedly to imitate her Italian author friend.

“Hmm . . . I don’t think I’ve heard of a Todd,” I say.

Mia and I have known each other for as long as I can remember. Our mothers were best friends growing up and later, married men who were also best friends. Much to our mothers’ dismay, we realized early on that history wouldn’t repeat itself when Mia kept going for the bad boys, while I stuck to the quiet types.

“Damn. I was hoping you had. Don’t you know everybody in the art world? Todd Stern?” she says, a hopeful note on her voice.

I laugh because it’s not far from the truth. Wyatt and I opened up Paint it Back—a gallery-slash-art studio—a couple of years ago, and between our artist and gallery owner friends, and Mia’s connections in the photography world, we pretty much did know everybody. Well, obviously not everybody.