“Are you here visiting?” he asks her.
She shakes her head, the bag in her hand crinkling noisily. “No, I just moved here with my dad.”
“Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry,” Paul says, shaking his head mournfully.
Paul is not a fan of Huckabee. Which is absolutely fair, because Huckabee has been really hard on him. He was always a little smaller, a little quieter, a little darker, and a little gayer than anyone at Huckabee High, and people weren’t shy about letting him know that. When he came home for Christmas break last winter with a boyfriend, it was like meeting an entirely different person. Like he came into his own the second he put his suitcase in the car and drove past the town limits. It’s honestly no wonder he drives back to visit his boyfriend every chance he gets.
Sometimes I wonder what that would be like. To go somewhere where no one sees someone else when they look at me.
“It doesn’t seem too bad,” she says, pulling her wallet out of her back pocket, her eyes flicking to me. “I mean, there are a lot of cows.”
I laugh as she pulls out a couple of ones, crisp and free of crinkles.
“How much for the donut?” she asks.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, waving my hand at her. We get a free baked good of our choice every day, and I feel like being generous.
“For real?” Blake asks, surprised.
“Yeah.” I nod to Paul. “Think of it as an apology donut from all of Huckabee.”
“Thanks,” she says, smiling down at the bag.
“Don’t mention it,” I say with a shrug. She reaches out and puts the money in the tip jar. “I’ll see you in a few hours,” she adds as she heads for the door, flashing a big smile in Paul’s direction as she pulls it open. “Bye, Paul!”
“Bye! Come back soon!” he calls, waving until the exact second the door clicks shut. He lets out a low whistle as we watch her walk down the street, her outline disappearing around the corner and out of sight. “What is she doing stuck in a place like Huckabee? I mean, why on earth would Johnny Carter move back here?” He pulls off his blue gloves with a snap and tosses them into the trash can.
I shrug and reach out to adjust the stray napkins spilling out of the dispenser. “I don’t know. Something to do with her family.” At least that’s as much as my dad mentioned. He was predictably light on the details.
When I push a stray hair behind my ear, I realize he’s raising his perfectly even eyebrows at me. “Well, she definitely wants to be friends with you,” he says as he grabs the empty donut tray.
“What? No.” I shake my head. “She probably just wanted a donut.”
“Emily, come on. You know Nina’s Bakery sure as hell isn’t on Yelp. Nothing in this fart of a town is on Yelp,” he calls over his shoulder as he heads for the kitchen sink. “She definitely just came to see you.”
Huh, he’s… right. I glance out the window, at the corner Blake disappeared around, and wonder if that’s the truth. If this might not be the loneliest summer after all.
4
A few hours later I push open the door to my dad’s bedroom, lugging a big, empty cardboard box behind me.
Carefully, I creep across the space, a reflex from my usual secret trips in here. I close the distance to my mom’s closet door, and my hand reaches out to wrap around the silver door handle.
I’ve been putting this room off since the house went up on the market three weeks ago. I knew it would be the hardest one.
I’d put it off for longer if my dad hadn’t just handed me a box downstairs, motioning up the steps and mumbling, “Closet today,” before ducking out of the room to go rummaging through the stuff in the basement.
I take a deep breath and turn the handle. Immediately the smell of her sweet lilac perfume radiates off the dresses and shirts and skirts, warm and safe and fading from this house and this room and this closet and my life by the second.
But for now, still here.
For a moment I stand there in the darkness and it’s like… I can feel her standing next to me. I let her wrap around me once more, let the horribly overwhelming sadness climb out of the box I usually keep it in. The one I only open here. It tightens its grip on my chest, reminding me why I always try to avoid this feeling, but this move is making it harder and harder to do that.
Bingo night is making it harder and harder to do that. Maybe I need to stop trying to push it away all the time.
Because pretty soon we will be in a new house, without a closet filled with her scent, and I will have nowhere to crawl into to try to feel close to her when I am sad or angry or heartbroken and only want to talk to her like I always did.
I flick on the light and gently run my fingers along the row of hangers, trying to convince myself that they are just clothes. Bits of fabric. Nothing more and nothing less.
It’s impossible, though. To not make every single thing feel like a memory.
I start with a black cardigan. It’s just a normal black sweater, nothing fashionable really. But she always used to wear it when we’d decorate cakes together in the kitchen, the pockets wide enough to hold pastry bags, and icing smoothers, and glass jars filled with sprinkles.
I pull it off the hanger and stare at it, trying to find the strength to turn around and drop it in the box.
To just let
