He takes a deep sigh and seems to bite the inside of his lip.
“What?” I ask.
“I’m sorry for not being there for you. I had my own shit to sort out, but I’m sorry for ever making you feel like you weren’t special to me. I always felt like I could be as close to—well, to the part of myself I was letting people see—with you. Then we lost touch. It’s what upset me the most about Pascha leaving. I know it’ll never be like it used to. I learned that when you and I grew apart. When I had a tough time knowing what to say to you or if I should come after your dad’s death. If I still had a place in your life at all or if you were upset that I was bad at staying in touch and I figured I should just stay away after that. I’m really sorry.”
I nod, pressing my lips together to keep my tears from spilling out as he reaches over to me for a hug. I let him squeeze me, and I squeeze him back. “It’s okay,” I whisper.
I’d always thought I was settling for a different kind of friendship with Stokes, instead of being with him romantically, or in his band, or continuing to be a big part of his life.
I was so busy being upset that I’d settled for just a friendship—I hadn’t realized how special it was to both of us. I couldn’t let it be what it was without wishing it could turn into something more. What more could I want than a friend who felt like family?
He clears his throat as we part and sighs again. “It’s why I just try to have a good time, live in the moment, and appreciate the time we have, you know? You never know when it’ll change forever.”
I nod and swallow at the lump in my throat. “See you tomorrow.”
I climb out of the car into the cool, early evening breeze.
“See you, Lyn,” he says in a sweet voice before I shut the door behind me.
I dig for my keys, checking over my shoulder, scoping out the street. Nothing weird or unfamiliar. Some of the neighbours have pumpkins out front of their houses, and the Hildens have a creepy carved jack-o-lantern on their porch.
Stokes pulls out of the driveway and I wave with my keys in hand, stepping up onto the porch and sliding them into the keyhole. As I push the door open, a hollow stomp on the wood comes from behind. I swivel around, coming face to face with Carol.
I huff, breathless. “Sorry, you scared me.”
She holds her hand to her chest with wide eyes. “I shouldn’t have come up so close behind you. I thought you saw me coming over… for the Shop Vac.”
“Right, come on in. I’ve got it in the closet where Mom left it for you.”
“How’s their trip going?”
Stevie circles her feet before joining my side in front of the closet in the middle of the hallway.
“Really well,” I call from inside the hallway closet. “They’re enjoying themselves.”
“That’s awesome. I’m jealous. I haven’t been on a vacation since our honeymoon.”
“Oh yeah? How long have you guys been married?” I pull the Shop Vac out, rolling it along the hardwood floor.
“Almost seven years, now.”
It would have only been three for me if he hadn’t fallen out of love, and I hadn’t given up. Dad’s favourite song said sometimes, you had to know when to quit, and it was quitting time for me just as much as him. I just didn’t realize it until I had no choice.
I push the vac, rolling it down the hall to her. “Doing some improvements? Or have a leak?”
“Alex is building a treehouse out back.”
“Oh.” I try to hide my surprise.
“I know, we don’t have kids—yet—but we’re trying for them, so he figures he better start now.”
“That’s sweet.”
“Well, thank you,” she says, rolling the vac out the door. “If you need us, we’re right next door. Oh, your mailbox is full. Here,” she says, holding the door open behind her. I step outside as she hoists up the Shop Vac. “Have a good one!”
“You too!” I lift the lid and grab a few envelopes along with a navy-blue notebook of sorts, bringing it inside and locking the door behind me.
I open the notebook and a typed message sits inside with a branded store emblem at the bottom.
A place for my favourite person to put her favourite songs. Love, Mom.
I run my hand over the embossed front cover, the most beautiful blue, and wish I didn’t have to wait until tomorrow to thank her for the gift—or to see her—or hug her and tell her she’s my favourite person, too. I guess I could email her. She was supposed to send me pictures.
I shuffle to the kitchen with Stevie in tow and pour myself a full glass of red wine, bringing it to the living room with me and sitting down with my notebooks.
I’ll put all my favourites in this one. The ones I love most. Consolidate. Clear my head. Then start fresh.
I get to work, transferring them over as I sip my wine, humming to the words at times, and silently scribbling for the rest. The sky turns from a blue jay hue to a navy like my book as I work and stars appear in the sky. I take in the beautiful view for as long as my nerves allow before closing the blinds to the outside world to savour the privacy and more wine as I finish my task at hand. I flip through Pascha’s book and transcribe my favourites of hers; no need to set them apart from mine—hers never have names and mine always do.
“Well, what do you think?” I ask Stevie, resting my pen on the pile of notebooks.
She doesn’t lift her head, and I know it’s time for bed, for the both of us.
“Big night
