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It had been a week since Jonathan left, and it was taking Bailey more time to adjust than she’d expected. Each time there was a knock on the door, or someone in town called her name, a tiny bit of her hoped it was him. It wasn’t. Thinking such a thing was ridiculous, but that didn’t stop her from clinging to the desire. They were keeping in touch, as promised. That was something.
She settled into the recliner at home with a fresh bag of chips and a jar of dip, and turned on the TV. Some sort of police procedural played in the background, as she typed out a text. Auction’s over. A few pleasant surprises. Most of it as expected. Check’s in the mail.
His reply buzzed in within moments. If you were anyone else, I’d take that as seriously as ‘trust me.’
Or ‘only driven once,’ she sent back.
Or ‘of course he’s your son and not the mailman’s.’
She laughed. You left this movie behind without instructions. What do you want me to do with it? Broaching the topic was risky. It meant talking about Nana’s life, rather than glossing over her death.
There was a several -minute pause. Was he distracted, or did she ruin the conversation? His message finally came through. Bury it in a crate in the back yard.
How am I supposed to respond to that?
I’m not being bitter. Can you think of a more appropriate fate for it?
She didn’t agree with his assessment. So the next person who finds it can sell it, instead of you?
Another pause. This one longer. You knew about that.
I guessed. She had hoped he wouldn’t confirm it. At least he hadn’t gone through with it though. I heard pieces of the conversation. You stood on the front porch while you talked to the guy.
Maybe the next person sells it. Maybe they burn it. Maybe they keep it and enjoy it for the classic art it is. Regardless, Nana touches at least one more life even after she’s gone. Makes someone else feel. And hell, it’ll drive historians nuts. Did Hemingway have another child? Didn’t he?
Are you going to pursue the truth yourself? If he’s really your grandfather...
No. If Nana moved on to keep her memories alive through us, I prefer them the way she shared them.
A sob welled in Bailey’s chest. It wasn’t all grief; some of it was knowing Jonathan finally got what Nana’s passing was about. Not that Bailey expected the mourning process to be over. This was a good start, though.
* * * *
IT HAD BEEN ALMOST a month since Jonathan returned home from Florida. He settled back into his routine without hesitation, but it didn’t feel the same as before. Today was a good-news day, though. The kind of news that was worth champagne and a little bit of hurt. It was seven at night here, so it was ten for Bailey, but she’d still be up. He ignored how empty his condo felt. It was the same amount of populated as it had been since he moved in years ago. Furnished, top of the line electronics, stainless steel kitchen, and a single occupant.
He grabbed a glass of whiskey on the rocks and settled onto the couch. He sent Bailey a text. That real-estate agent you recommended is a genius. Closing on the house next week. Something about the sentence sat heavy in his gut.
Are you all right?
She was supposed to say it was awesome news, or congratulate him. What kind of question was that? Why wouldn’t I be?
It’s her house, and it’s gone now.
He tried to brush off her meaning, but it stuck to his heart. The house is still there. I just don’t own it now.
You know what I mean.
He coped in his own way. I’m dealing all right. Have a drink with me, to celebrate?
Of course. Her reply was followed by a photo of a glass that looked almost identical to his.
That was better. Cheers.
* * * *
SIX WEEKS SINCE JONATHAN went home. Bailey told herself she wasn’t counting the days because he was gone, but because the time coincided with her getting her cast off. She still had to remind herself it was okay now to scratch when the skin itched. She stood in front of the full-length mirror in her Atlanta hotel room, admiring the way her new black dress hugged her curves and ended just above the knees. Her arm looked a little odd, being paler than the rest of her, but it would be dark in the bar. No one would notice.
She grabbed her phone, snapped a picture, and sent it to Jonathan. She followed it up with, Hitting the clubs tonight. The texting was a nightly ritual. He offered to call, but she told him this was more fun. She held back the part about not wanting to hear his voice. She needed a little more time before they could talk without it making her homesick from her own living quarters.
Every eye in the room will be on you. His reply flushed her cheeks. Do you have some lucky bastard in mind, or is this a play-it-by-ear thing, to see who catches your attention?
She was trying to get back to life as it was, but had yet to find the desire for an anonymous fling. No guys tonight. Or girls. I’m going to dance and lose myself in the music.
Have fun.
The brief response made her frown, but not every conversation could be a lengthy discourse on the topic of the day. She typed, Wish you were here, then deleted it and sent him back a simple Thanks.
* * * *
THANK YOU FOR THE EARBUDS. Bailey’s message brought a smile to Jonathan’s face. He dropped his phone on the bed and switched it over to voice text. Almost two months, and she refused to talk via phone. He didn’t get it, but as long as the messages kept coming, he wouldn’t push the issue.
In case you want to lose yourself in the music, without going all the way to Atlanta, he said. Not that it should stop you. It was his problem that envy snaked through him every time he thought about her grinding against other men. It would pass with time.
I don’t do a lot of that now. It’s not the same as it used to be.
That made his smile grow, but he’d keep his response neutral. Maybe it’s time for a new hobby. By the way, thank you for forwarding the china. The wooden crate arrived this morning, packed up tight for its journey. The dishes Nana intended him to have when he married. He was grateful Bailey didn’t sell them after all.
I had a feeling you’d want it. Wait. Why are you talking to me?
He checked his reflection and straightened his bow tie. Are you complaining?
Never. Don’t you have that charity thing tonight?
She remembered. He liked that.
Investor dinner. It’s not for an hour, and I wanted to say hi before I left.
Are you dressed to the nines and looking all spiffy? she asked.
It’s my tux. Same one I wear to every dinner. I suppose since they keep inviting me back, it hasn’t offended anyone yet.
I want to see.
He stared at the phone, frowning, as if the expression might carry to her. Of me in my tux?
Yes. I’ve never seen you in a tux.
I don’t do selfies. He was already picking up the phone. She’d talk him into it sooner or later.
Make an exception for me?
He snapped the photo and hit Send. Better?
A sight I wouldn’t mind seeing more often, suit or not. Though you do make it look good.
Of course I do.
As he finished getting ready for dinner, he couldn’t ignore the gnawing in his chest that wished she was going with him tonight, instead of thousands of miles away.
*
BAILEY LAY ON HER BACK in bed, staring at the photo on her phone. How was it she only had the one picture of Jonathan as an adult? Okay, so maybe she was acting like a giddy teenager, crushing over the hot guy in a suit, but that didn’t stop her from looking at the image every few minutes.
She missed him as much now as when he left. It might be she wasn’t giving herself a chance to move on, but it wasn’t as though she wanted this empty pit in her gut. It was almost two in the morning, and she couldn’t sleep. Would he still be rubbing shoulders there? Did investor dinners go past eleven? Probably.
Her phone buzzed in her hand, startling her, and she almost dropped the device. That it was a new note from Jonathan chased away her exhaustion. I miss her. His words filled Bailey with sadness.
She was tempted to make light of the subject, simply to avoid the hurt the note summoned. She couldn’t bring herself to type, Are you drunk? Instead she said, Me too.
Some days I think it’s starting to hurt less, and then I remember a random thing that happened. A story she told me or a birthday gift, and the grief comes back.
It’ll take time. And even then, I don’t think the pain ever goes away completely. Not exactly comforting words, but it was the truth.
I know.
I’m always here, though. It was the same reassurance she always offered. This time it felt like there was more to her words than she intended.
His reply read, <3. Good night, Ale.
What the freak was that supposed to mean? She stared at the conversation, scrolling up to the picture of him and reading though it again and again, until the words didn’t make sense anymore. She itched to call him. Suddenly her reasons for not wanting to hear his voice felt silly. He was probably sleeping instead of obsessively looking for meaning that wasn’t there in a muddle of digital words.
She dropped the phone on the mattress with a sigh. What was she doing?