by Jill Cox
I felt Pete take in a deep breath. “I called Dan, Sully. I’m sorry if that’s not okay, but I needed to talk to someone and…”
“It’s okay,” I whispered into his sleeve, wrapping my hands around his bicep. “How’s Hungary?”
“I don’t know. Dan said they’re in Dubrovnik.”
“But Anne showed me their itinerary. I remember thinking it was a joke, because everything was in alphabetical order: Amsterdam, Berlin, Budapest, Prague, and then Dubrovnik.”
“Prague’s not before Dubrovnik in the alphabet.”
“No, but Czech Republic is.”
Pete lowered his chin to my shoulder, his wet cheek resting against my neck. “Dan asked me to tell you they will fly home, Sully. If you want them here, all you have to do is ask.”
“No,” I whispered, choking back another sob. “It’ll be too big a hassle for them, especially from somewhere smaller like Dubrovnik.”
“Okay. I’ll call him back this afternoon.” He paused for a moment, his thumb grazing my wrist. “Hey, Sully? Shouldn’t someone call Drew Sutton?”
No, I screamed inside. No one needs to call Drew, because this whole thing is only a nightmare. All we have to do is start today over. Wake up again, and today will disappear.
But it wasn’t a nightmare. Ian was gone, and he wasn’t coming back.
Ripping myself free from Pete’s grip, I sprinted across the sand, reaching the surf just in time for the contents of my stomach to empty into the Pacific. When I stood upright again, I screamed at the top of my lungs until a giant wave caught me off guard, and I stumbled, landing on all fours as the tide sucked water out from under me on its rush back out to sea.
Two hands circled around my midsection, pulling me upright, guiding me up the beach past the tide line. And somehow I found myself wrapped inside Pete’s hoodie as sob after heaving sob thundered through me.
“I didn’t tell him I loved him,” I wailed, sucking in breath after heaving breath. “I didn’t tell him, and now I never will again.”
Pete laid his hand on the back of my head, pressing me against his chest. “Don’t do that, Sully. Don’t say things like that.”
“Why not?” I banged my fist against his chest. “This whole thing is my fault. I knew something bad would happen if they drove all night, but did I listen to my gut? No. I was too busy being polite. Why didn’t we stop them, Pete? Why did we let them go?”
“I don’t know,” he whispered, his words as watery as mine. “I don’t know.”
And even though his grip on me never wavered, Pete’s breathing went shallow as his body began to tremble. It could have been the chill coming off the Pacific; Lincoln City was always chilly, even in July. Maybe it was just our denial wearing thin. But whatever the reason, I began to tremble, too.
SEVEN
The casserole brigade showed up the next morning. And not just casseroles – quiches, pies, cobblers – you name it, they brought it.
Why do people do this? I would like to know. Does cream of mushroom soup have medicinal properties? Is there something magical about layering that fake fried onion nonsense on top of melted cheese? Or have we as a society made death our excuse to dump the unwanted cans in our pantry onto someone who’s too distracted to protest?
Who knows? Maybe casseroles are Big Brother’s plan to trick grieving people into replenishing their own sodium levels.
“Let’s do something useful,” Pete said quietly to me as we waved goodbye to a church friend who’d dropped off a blackberry cobbler. “Come on, Sully. Give me a task. Can I mow the backyard? Do you guys have any lightbulbs that need changing? I’ll do anything you ask, so long as it doesn’t involve talking.”
You know things are bad when the biggest extrovert you’ve ever known is peopled out.
I slipped my arms around his waist and looked up. “What do you know about minimalism?”
“You mean that thing where you pick up an item, and if it fails to bring you the happy feels, you pitch it?” His lips curved upward. “I’m familiar with the concept.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “You’re making fun of me, mister.”
“What? No way!” He looked genuinely offended. “This minimalism philosophy is here to stay – there’s an entire movement afoot, Sully, and I’m on board. Trust your gut! Pick it up and pitch it! Only keep what you love! In other words, don’t pitch me. Because I might look tough, but I bruise easily.”
A tiny chuckle escaped me. “Do you pay someone to stand nearby and whisper the right answers to all my questions?”
“Yes, I do.” He tapped my nose playfully. “Cyrano de Bergerac reported for duty a long time ago, mademoiselle. Now, about that task you promised me – what’d you have in mind?”
Even on our darkest day – and this day definitely qualified –tackling the chaos we could control felt like therapy to the Sullivan clan. Planning and organizing were our love languages, which Pete knew well by now. He’d helped us close the door on my Nana’s life.
When my dad’s heart attack had sent Mama Molly’s life into a tailspin this spring, she’d responded by devoting herself to the minimalist movement. When Ian had come home for Easter, she’d enlisted his help in her quest for joy. So while my mother laid her fingers on every item she owned upstairs, poor Ian had boxed up the few remnants of his teenage self down in the basement. And after he’d finished donating or trashing every single item apart from the Christmas karaoke machine, he’d helped Mum relocate her joyless junk to his old room.
So we carried on. While Pete carried each box up to my dad’s truck, I would rifle through the next box to make sure Molly Sullivan hadn’t donated my joy. And each time the truck bed was full, we’d drive to the church consignment store a couple of miles north of my house, and the whole process began again.
We worked in the basement all day Thursday, stopping only for a supper of – wait for it – King Ranch casserole and blackberry cobbler. After dinner, Pete decided to take a load by himself so I could finish my detective work on the final three boxes. The consignment store closed at nine, so we didn’t have much time to lose.
Two of the boxes were filled with Sullivan’s Restaurant t-shirts. Each one of them had an irregularity – a wonky collar, a misshapen ink blot where the silk screener had likely grown bored with his work – so my parents had removed them from the restaurant swag room in the back office, relinquishing them instead to our basement.
The third box also held t-shirts, so I almost didn’t open it the whole way. But then something near the surface caught a glimmer of light, so I reached inside. And what I pulled out took my breath away.
Ian’s green glass fairy.
I heard the upstairs door open and footsteps on the stairs, but I couldn’t pull my eyes away. Pete stood behind me for a long moment, watching me. And still, I couldn’t take my eyes off the little green figure.
“What is this, Sully?” Pete trailed his finger over the green silhouette. “Her left leg’s bent upward like she just kicked off from the ground. Did you make this?”
“No.” I placed the fairy in his palm. “Every year, from October to May, a team of volunteers drop these hand-blown glass floats up and down the seven miles of Lincoln City beaches. Hundreds of them, in all shapes and sizes and colors.”
“I’ve heard about this tradition. It’s a big deal, right?”
“Yeah. When I was maybe fourteen, Ian and I found this one behind a piece of driftwood over Christmas break. And maybe you’ll think this is dorky, but I took it as a sign.”
“A sign of what, Miss Fee?” Pete said with a brogue. “That ye have fairy blood after all?”
I lifted my teary eyes to his. “A sign that we were meant to live in Ireland, not Oregon. For the rest of that school year, until Ian finally admitted it was a prank, I convinced myself we’d ruined our lives by moving here.”
The smile disappeared from Pete’s face. “Do you still feel that way?”
Tears blurred my vision. As the moment st
retched out between us, Pete’s eyes flickered between mine, growing darker and wilder with each second that passed. But then he smiled, brushing the tears from my cheek with his thumb. “This will never do,” he said softly. “You haven’t eaten nearly enough casserole to support this level of sodium depletion.”
“Are you a biology minor or something?”
“What?” Pete cocked his head to the side. “You don’t know what my minor is?”
“Do you know mine?”
“English lit.” His eyes widened. “No freaking way, Sully. Did you even notice me for one second before I swept you off your feet last fall?”
“You didn’t sweep me off my feet.”
“Um, yes, I did. Literally. I tricked you into dancing with me, then flipped you so many times that your brain cells went wonky and you fell for my evil scheme.” He gaped at me, eyes widening by the second. “I cannot believe this. All this time I thought you knew me and you’ve just been blowing smoke.”
“Pete –”
“No, no.” He lifted a hand dismissively as he walked away. “It’s too late for apologies, sister. Just remember – you brought this on yourself.”
Pete jogged across the room to the storage space under the stairs where we’d stashed the items I’d rescued from my mother’s joy-seeking campaign. He shimmied the Christmas karaoke machine out from behind a lamp and dragged it to a nearby outlet. After an elegant bow, he pressed play.
The jaunty piano-scale intro of the Jackson Five’s I Want You Back streamed out of the tiny speaker. Every year, that was the final song of the Sullivan-Sutton Christmas karaoke fest, because Dr. Andy’s falsetto was our favorite. Suddenly, all those years of shared memories threatened to knock me over again. We would never have another night like that. Never. Not without my brother.
But Pete didn’t know that. Instantly, he recognized the music and turned away from me, shaking his backside in rhythm to the music, snapping his fingers in the air whenever the Jackson Five snapped. Booty shake, booty shake, snap. Booty shake, booty shake, snap.
When Michael began to woo-hoo-oooooo-woooooo, Pete whipped around to face me, clasping the green fairy like a microphone, lip-syncing at me like it was his job. And to exactly no one’s surprise, he knew every freaking word.
At the chorus, Pete dropped briefly to his knees, begging just like Michael, the expression on his face so over-the-top despondent that I couldn’t help but laugh. Bolstered by my cheer, he hopped back to his feet, and for the next few minutes, he danced me around the room, spinning me in and out and sideways. He never let go of me or the green fairy microphone, not for one single step. And for the handful of moments he held me tight in his grip, I couldn’t help myself. I laughed so hard that I almost forgot why I was crying in the first place.
When the song ended, Pete pulled me into a hug so tight I could scarcely breathe. “It’s Mandarin,” he whispered into my shoulder. “My minor’s Mandarin.”
“You’re such a liar.”
“My minor is Mandarin,” he repeated, ignoring my accusation as he squeezed me tighter. “So all you have to do is say the word, and I’ll book us a flight to Shanghai. Your parents can come too if they want. We can circumnavigate the globe forever if that’s what it takes to bring back the happy feels.”
I laughed for half a second before it turned into a muffled sob. “I love you,” I whispered into that space where his chin met his ear. “I’ve never loved anyone the way that I love you. Promise me we’ll get through this, Pete. Together. No matter what.”
Pete curved his face toward mine and breathed in deeply. We might have stayed like that forever if I hadn’t opened my eyes to find Drew Sutton sitting at the top of the basement stairs.
EIGHT
Drew stood when his eye caught mine and stepped slowly down the stairs. “Um, hi,” he said with a strained smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you guys. Molly just mentioned you were down here and… hey, you know what? I’ll come back tomorrow when you’re not busy.”
He started back upstairs, his knuckles white where he gripped the railing. But Pete released me and crossed the room in three easy strides. “Sutton,” he urged. “Hold up a second.”
At the sound of Pete’s voice, Drew pivoted to face his so-called brother. His eyes drifted briefly to me while Pete closed the gap between them, but then my new boyfriend reached up to shake my old boyfriend’s hand. And the world froze in place.
“Hey, man.” Pete bent his head briefly, almost like a bow. “Thanks for coming over.”
Drew blinked at him for several seconds, then took Pete’s hand. “Uh… yeah, of course. I’m just here to deliver some boxes from the apartment, if that’s okay.”
“Right. The boxes.” Pete looked over his shoulder at me, then took another step up the staircase. “Hey, help me load these last few in Jamie’s truck, would you? Then I’ll help you unload your Jeep.”
Drew nodded and followed Pete across the room, grabbing the karaoke machine plus one of the t-shirt boxes. When he’d disappeared into the garage, Pete said, “I bet Sutton’s had a long day.” He stacked the remaining two boxes on top of one another, lifting them into his arms. “Should we make some coffee?”
I nodded once and smiled. Man, the Beckett-Russell clan raised a good kid.
Fifteen minutes later, just as the coffee finished brewing, Pete and Drew appeared behind me in the kitchen. “Hey,” Pete said. “I’m going to take those last three boxes up to the consignment shop. They’re closing soon.”
“Oh.” I willed myself not to glance at Drew. “Want me to come with you?”
“That’s okay.” Pete stepped toward the door. “You guys stay here and catch up. Just don’t drink the whole pot before I get back.”
And with a wink, he was gone.
Drew joined me at the kitchen counter, pulling out both our favorite mugs from the cabinet. I poured coffee in his cup, then filled mine.
“Teamwork,” he said with a forced smile. “I gotta tell you, Fee, I’ve worried all spring that we’d never figure this out. Leave it to Ian to force us to work out our differences once and for all. I mean, if you still want to be friends, that is. I’ll understand if you don’t.”
I buried my head in Drew’s shoulder, and his arms closed around me just as I felt his breath hitch in his chest. We could try to fill this moment with words, but we both knew what the other was feeling. Despite any of the heartache we’d caused one another these past few years, we both loved Ian Sullivan. He’d been our mutual hero for as long as either of us remembered. And now, all we had left were our shared memories.
It was Drew who pulled away first. He wiped his eyes, grabbed both coffee mugs, and cocked his head toward the backyard. I followed him to the far end near the fence, between two trees, where a bench swing remained from our childhood.
Drew handed me my mug and the two of us sat down. “I, uh, left all the furniture at the Seattle apartment, but everything else is downstairs.”
“Thank you, Drew. I mean it. You saved us all a lot of tears.”
“Yeah, well, I swiped the karaoke machine when Russell wasn’t watching, so don’t think too highly of me. I just robbed your house right under your nose.”
A laugh rose from deep inside me. “I think Ian would’ve wanted you to have it. Besides, no one will ever top your grandad singing the Jackson Five.”
“I think someone just did.” He stared back at the house for a long moment, watching my mom putter around in the kitchen. “Hey Meredith? I saw Ian Tuesday night. He stopped by the apartment to drop off his suitcase.”
My breath hitched in my throat. “He did?”
“Yeah.” He turned to face me. “He showered, changed, and filled up a small bag in the space of like, seven minutes. His hair was still wet when he walked out the door.”
“Was Kate with him?”
“No. Ian said she went to get gas.”
“Did he say anything?”
“I asked him where you were.” Drew�
�s dark blue eyes held mine. “He said Molly was driving you back to Lincoln City, and that he and Kate were headed to Whistler for a few days.”
“Yeah. Greg invited them up to his place for some new employee shindig.”
“I know.” Drew’s eyes searched mine for a moment. “It was already nearly ten o’clock, Meredith. I told him he was crazy to try to drive that far when he was exhausted, but he just grabbed a couple of energy drinks out of the fridge and told me they’d be fine.”
I nodded, swallowing hard. “Did he say anything else?”
Drew chewed on his lip for a moment. “He said Kate thought they should take the inland route. The border’s always congested at the crossing closest to Vancouver, so they were going to drive northeast a few miles to the Abbotsford border crossing. When I told him that was ridiculous – that they’d be adding at least two hours to their trip – he just laughed. ‘You and Fee are both such grannies,’ he said. ‘We’ll be to Whistler by two a.m., and everything’ll be grand.’”
I wanted to wrap my arms around him again. Drew Sutton – my once-upon-a-time best friend and first love – had just given me a gift: the tiniest sliver of peace.
“It’s not your fault, Drew,” I muttered, reaching for his hand. “I tried to talk him out of driving to Canada Tuesday night myself. But you should have seen his face light up when Kate surprised us at the airport. I think he was too in love to be rational.”
Drew’s face twitched briefly as his eyes slipped back to the kitchen window. Pete was back from the consignment shop, and from the looks of it, my mom had roped him into putting away the dishes. Despite the ache in my chest, a tiny laugh bubbled up from inside me at the sight of gigantic Pete stacking my mother’s bone china teacups in a cabinet.
“So, confession time,” Drew said, still staring into the kitchen. “Did I ever tell you Pete Russell was my favorite person at Highgate for about a week freshman year?”
I blinked. “Uh, no. Are you trying to make me laugh or something?”