I tuck my hands under my arms, partly to stave off the cold, but mostly because this is the first time I’ve been left alone with Morgan since I boldly told her all the things she was doing wrong.
“This is nice,” she says, leaning in so she doesn’t have to talk very loud.
I glance at her and nod.
“Yeah, it is. My grandpa really knows how to throw a good party.” We both laugh, but there’s a lot of truth in my joke.
“I wanted to thank you. For the other day,” she says.
“Of course,” I say, giving her another tight smile.
She doesn’t let me brush off her gratitude so easily, though, and reaches for my arm. My eyes jet to her hand on my forearm and I relax the hold I have on myself.
“Seriously, Jonah.” I’m a little shocked to hear her use my actual name rather than an insult. I relax my arms completely and turn to square myself with her because I know what she’s trying to say right now isn’t easy.
“I know. But I also meant it when I said of course. I’ve grown up watching all of you grow up,” I say, glancing to the end of the driveway and not just to the Trombley home, but to the blonde gift standing on the sidewalk and waving at me. I hold up an open palm and Morgan does the same.
“Don’t you dare break her, Jonah. I couldn’t take losing her too.”
I can’t bring myself to look her in the eyes after those words, but I take them to heart. I know it wasn’t a warning. It was a plea. It was the God’s honest truth.
“I wouldn’t dare,” I utter.
The garage erupts with cheers, bringing our attention back to the warmth inside and a very rowdy group of Blackhawks fans.
“I think my dad likes your grandpa,” she says, noting the high fives they exchange after a short-handed goal against the power play.
“Everybody likes my grandpa. Careful, he’s single. He has no compunction about age discrepancies,” I say, only partially kidding.
We step in closer to the heater and warm our hands while the remaining minutes of the period tick down, and for this little moment here in my garage, everything feels normal. It’s almost like a window into lost time. These are things we could have done long ago. Rather than hiding in my own world, I could have invited the Trombleys over for spaghetti nights when my dad was alive, or to shoot off the illegal fireworks he drove down to Indiana to get. For a man I considered so preoccupied with work and numbers, he still managed to mark my life with special memories.
“Hey, Morgan?”
We both turn at the sound of Eleanor’s voice. Our faces are all smiles, still caught up in the glee and joy happening inside the garage. It takes a minute to catch up to the serious expressions standing just outside. Eleanor looks uncertain, maybe even rattled. I feel as though I recognize the woman who is standing next to her, but the two men waiting back a few feet aren’t familiar at all.
“She’s from National Network News. They, uh, they want to do a special, on us and Addy. Maybe something she’ll see, if she’s . . . out . . . there.” Reality hits Eleanor all at once, drowning her in its molasses-like thickness, choking off every other sensation so all she feels is the urgency and unrest that comes along with the role of being a girl with a missing family member.
A news story for the national stage.
“Oh, uh.” Morgan freezes in place, her eyelids twitching while her mind switches gears. “Can we go somewhere more quiet to talk about this? I— Let me grab my parents. Really, this is up to them.”
“Of course,” the woman says.
Suddenly, my use of those very same words feels shallow.
I wait with Eleanor while her sister weaves through the revelry to her parents, yanking them from their brief vacation from grief. Both of their heads jerk in our direction, not to us, but to the opportunity for one more message of hope behind us. It’s a ratings grab, masked as public service, but even still, how could they say no?
Eleanor’s fingers brush against mine in the quiet space between our bodies, finger looping through finger until we’re fully clasping hands. Her sister and parents are already headed our way, an end to a near perfect evening counting down in five, four, three . . .
“Do you want me to come with you?” I ask.
I know she doesn’t. She shakes her head and whispers, “Thanks” anyhow.
I squeeze her fingers between mine before she strips them away, like grains of sand falling through the gaps. I clasp my hands behind my neck and pivot as the Trombleys guide yet one more camera crew toward their home.
Their door closes as Gemma pulls up in her car, and she walks toward me while peering over her shoulder, probably wondering what I’m looking at and what she missed. I give her the details when she reaches me, then I cash in my few remaining chips with my grandfather and make my way inside.
I can still smell Eleanor on my sheets from the day before. I’ve never been so happy doing nothing with another person. I think an entire hour went by without us talking. Sure, there were lots of kisses, but not every moment was filled with that. Purely feeling her warm body tucked against mine, blood running through her veins and pumping her heart in a rhythm that, when life got incredibly still, I could hear—that’s what I think of now.
Too early for sleep, I pull the Bradbury book from my night table and lay back to flip through the pages. A photograph slips from the middle of the book and lands on my chin. I’m sure it’s
