chapter nineteen

I can hear it before I even knock on the door.

Music, loud and vibrant. Something from a musical if I had to guess, all well-trained voices and lots of instrumentation, a girl singing about defying gravity. Every single window is lit with a golden glow, full of an energy and warmth that make me take a deep breath.

I shift Peach onto my hip so I can ring the doorbell, my arms and back sore from carrying her across the beach on the uneven sand. The bell sounds through the house, but underneath the music, the chime is like flies buzzing around a tornado. I ring it again, and then a third time, my sister growing heavier by the second. She lifts her head and mumbles something about dinosaurs before flopping her cheek back onto my shoulder.

Nothing.

My brain says go back to Sea Rose Cottage—put Peach to bed and go to sleep, forget this whole ridiculous idea—but my hand does something different. It reaches out and twists Lemon’s doorknob, and then my eyes nearly cry in relief when the door swings open to reveal a small entryway that opens into a living room, a fire roaring in the gas fireplace even though it’s the end of June. The music blares from the back hallway, voices laugh and shout, but I feel frozen to the spot, taking in the kind of house I haven’t seen in two years.

A home, cozy and bright and calming all at the same time.

There’s the huge cream-colored sectional couch, bright pillows in kelly green and navy spilling everywhere, a fleece blanket piled up in one corner with a book still open and facedown. Driftwood end tables flank the couch, softly glowing lamps and a mug with cats all over it still half full of cold tea or coffee on top. Even more books spread across a big tufted ottoman in the middle of everything.

And the smell—it’s not stale, like every rental I’ve ever walked into. It’s warm, like candle wax and laundry, a whiff of cinnamon left over from some meal made recently. The big island in the kitchen, which opens up into the living room just like our kitchen in Berkeley used to, is filled with the kind of stuff that says life and family and We live here—papers and mail, books and hair elastics and half-filled water glasses, a phone charger curling up on itself like a snake.

The walls are covered in art, not like Mum’s, but not generic landscapes, either. No, all these pieces mean something. I even see a framed piece between two windows that looks like a self-portrait, clearly done by Lemon in a school art class, different scraps of paper making up her red hair and freckles.

And then there’s the driftwood mantel over the sea-glass-tiled fireplace.

Framed photographs cover the entire surface, smiles beaming out at everyone who walks through the front door. I walk closer, Lemon’s face growing clearer with every step.

And not just Lemon.

Lemon and Immy. Clementine and Imogene.

Over and over, there they are, red pigtails that grew into wild waves, matching blouses and jeans and backpacks on what looks like a first-day-of-school picture. Third grade, maybe. There’s a couple of the twins with Claire and a dark-haired guy I assume is their dad, and then one photo of Lemon and Claire alone, at the very edge of the mantel. They’re on the beach, and it’s clearly a selfie, Lemon’s head resting on Claire’s shoulder, a sad smile on both their faces. A smile I feel right in my gut.

But Immy is here. She’s remembered here. Here, in this home, she’s still alive.

I want to sink onto the couch, right in the little corner where one section meets the other. I want to curl under that fleece blanket, read whatever book is lying there, pull Peach close to me while surrounded by all the stuff that makes a place ours, all the little things that make it home.

Except it’s not ours and it’s not home.

We haven’t had a home in two years.

We’ve had houses. Cottages. Apartments. Duplexes. The road. But we don’t have a home. Not anymore. I close my eyes and picture our house in California, the big, squashy couch and art on the walls and the kitchen where Mum and Mama cooked our meals, talked and danced and loved and even argued every now and then.

The sting in my chest is almost unbearable. But instead of wanting to run to Mama, demand that she take us back to Berkeley, back home, I just want to be here. Lemon’s home. At least for tonight. A place where someone she lost still feels close, still feels treasured.

Another laugh bursts from the back hallway, jolting me out of my thoughts. I blink away some rogue tears, then hoist Peach up higher in my arms. I walk toward the voices, the music, stopping in front of a door covered in stickers of mermaids and other sea creatures—which means it absolutely has to be Lemon’s room—and lift my hand to knock.

I freeze.

My nerves crawl up my throat, making it hard to swallow.

What if I’m not welcome? Lemon invited me over, sure, and then I ran away, a huge nonverbal Take your invitation and shove it if there ever was one. I’m thinking of what I’m going to say or do, when Peach twitches in her sleep. Her foot lashes out, kicking the door with a hard thump.

The music turns down and the door flies open, revealing Lemon, a question wrinkling her eyebrows, which…

I squint at her.

… are covered in bright teal glitter.

As are her eyelids, her cheeks, and her lips. Even her bruised nose has a dot of teal on the end.

Behind her is the most elaborate blanket fort I’ve ever seen, spanning her entire room from wall to wall, warm fairy lights strung everywhere and wrapped around anything that will hold them. Kiko and Jules are inside the fort on the floor, where there’s a whole still-steaming pizza in its delivery box, at least five lit jar candles in a wide circle around them, and a huge basket of makeup. Their faces are similarly coated in glitter, their eyebrows pushed together with the same question.

“Um… hi,” I say.

A beat passes.

Then Lemon’s glittery face breaks out into a huge grin and she throws her arms around me, Peach still fast asleep and smooshed between us.