He looks down at the laptop tucked under my arm, so I hold it up and move toward the stairs.
“Actually, do you think your wife could maybe join us in Eleanor’s room? I have something I think you all might want to see. Something I made, with Morgan’s help.” I glance over his shoulder to the den where Morgan has been hovering.
“It’s done?” She’s picking at the end of her sweater, clearly eager to see the finished product.
“It is. Want to see the grand premier?” I lean my head toward the stairs as she smiles.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” she says, nodding to her dad to reassure him that he’s not getting in over his head. I really hope she’s right.
We gather at the top of the steps and the hallway is already a tight fit. It gets even more crowded when Mrs. Trombley comes out of her room to join us, and I worry Eleanor is going to think this is an intervention when we all convene on her at once. I suppose, in a way, it is.
“Let me set this up with her first, if that’s okay?” I say, stopping right outside Eleanor’s door.
Morgan nods and I leave her parents with her as I slip inside Eleanor’s room. She’s sitting up and watching something on her phone with her headphones on. It’s good to see her engaging with something, and there’s a touch of color to her face. She’s wrapped herself in my flannel shirt, which is flattering. She’s worn it for about five days straight, though, so it might be time for me to swap it out with something different.
To keep from startling her, I crouch down to catch her eyes. She still jumps a little, but pulls her headphones off and sets her phone to the side.
“Sorry, I was watching some home improvement competition. They’re turning storage containers into beach houses.” She’s more animated than she has been in days. This is promising.
“Sounds . . . sandy,” I reply, moving to sit next to her on her bed.
Her attention drifts to my laptop and she curls her legs in, hugging them to her body, already guarded. I open my mouth, ready with the talking points I practiced, but I suddenly realize I’m better off the cuff. I can’t be polished and rehearsed with this girl. I have to be honest and heartfelt. It’s all I’ve ever really been, and it’s taken me—us—far.
I pull in a deep breath that I sense makes her nervous.
“It’s nothing bad. I promise,” I say to set her at ease.
“O-kay,” she hums, shifting her gaze to me then back to the laptop. She lets go of one of her legs and loosens the grip on her knees. Baby steps.
“You know how you made me that music playlist, for my birthday?” I refuse to admit I’m starting to enjoy country music, but I’ve listened to those songs every day for the last month. I have most of them memorized, even the super sappy ones.
“Did you make me a . . . playlist?” She lifts a brow, clearly not sure where any of this is going.
“Right, no. Not exactly. But I did use one of your songs. Not the Bronco one, but that song that you were singing in the car the first time you went to Toby’s with me.”
Her mouth softens, almost a smile.
“Used it for what?” she asks.
I exhale, a little relieved that this is working. She’s taken the bait, so to speak.
“It’s sort of a multimedia project. And I got a little help, so I wondered if you would mind if—”
“If?” she interjects.
“If, maybe I invited your entire family into your bedroom to watch something with us?” I grin through gritted teeth to show her how guilty I feel. She also usually can’t resist me when I play up being pathetic.
“Are they right out there?” She laughs, but shuts her mouth when she gleans from the face I’m making that yes, in fact, they are.
“Guys?” My head sinks into my shoulders with guilt as Morgan unlatches the door and slowly exposes everyone gathered in the tight hallway space.
“Oh, my God, you guys are ridiculous!” Eleanor says. I’m just glad she finds this amusing. So far.
I sit on the floor with the laptop in front of me while her mom and sister nestle in next to her, and Mr. Trombley stands to the side, behind me. I feel as though this requires a set-up, at least, so I flip my computer open but not fully so I can block the screen. The first thing they will see is Addy’s face, and I don’t want them—Eleanor—shutting down before I even start.
“Elle, I know you’re thinking about calling your cheer coach and asking them to put Kacey in for the competition this weekend. And, don’t be mad at your sister, but she also told me you’re thinking about passing on Texas.”
Eleanor’s mom gasps behind me, but before she can turn this moment into something it’s not, both Morgan and I hold up our hands.
“Give him a minute, Mom,” Morgan says.
My gaze slides back to Eleanor, and she’s holding her thumbnail tightly between her teeth, fear spiraling behind her eyes.
“Before you change up your entire path . . .” I’m careful not to use the word derail. If I learned one thing from my mom’s months of therapy sessions, it’s that people do not like to be accused of derailing anything. It’s the one word my mom would hold on to after every appointment, and repeat it like it was a weapon. I honestly believe that word is the reason she quit going to that doctor.
“Take a look at these memories you built, you all built, with Addy. And if you erase those things that you do, that she was such
