ELEVEN

JESSE

“You are going to love this barbecue,” Claire says, removing a plastic container from a white paper bag and setting it onto the counter. “I’m not usually a fan because I don’t like vinegar-based sauces, but this family’s recipe is more sweet than spicy.”

“Where did you find out about this place? I’ve never even heard of it.”

“You know, it’s in this run-down shack looking restaurant close to the hospital. The building got grandfathered in or something, and it looks like it’s going to fall down any minute, but there’s a line out the door by ten-thirty every day, and they usually sell out of food by two or three. Thankfully, they said I could call in my order and pick it up around back any time. We did their daughter’s wedding late last year. They catered the event themselves. People just raved. Now we recommend them for our more laid-back events. You know, the fall brides hosting barn receptions. Lots of tea lights and flannel tablecloths.”

“Flannel?” I ask, taking the container she hands me and opening the lid to examine its contents. “That’s a wedding thing now?”

“Well, the right kind of flannel,” she replies. “Used in the right way.”

“So there’s a wrong kind of flannel,” I confirm.

“Absolutely.”

“And your job is to keep brides from choosing the wrong kind of flannel.”

“In a sense, yes, but that’s mostly Deb’s job. I enjoy what I do,” she continues, as if needing to convince me—as if I would somehow doubt or disbelieve her. “I am organized almost to the point of neuroses. I’m not saying I haven’t made mistakes, but it takes a lot to pull off a high-end wedding, and I like that I can help make someone’s vision come true. I love sending a happy bride and groom off into their happily ever after.”

The words, I’ll admit, surprise me. After everything that happened with Sean. . . . “You still believe in happily ever afters,” I say.

“I do. I’m a realist, but I’m not a cynic, and I do hope the couples we see married last. That’s what I want for me, anyway.”

Want. She seems more than open to the idea of dating and settling down with someone, even if she’s against this David guy her mom keeps throwing at her. She realizes a happily ever after might exist for her outside of Sean, that she could—maybe—fall in love again.

And I wonder about happily ever afters and Sean. If he were still here today, would they have lasted?

I don’t know. In twenty-four hours, I might have changed my mind about telling Claire about the other girl. In twenty-four hours she might have changed her mind about Nolan. Knowing she was pregnant—that she was going to have his child—might have been enough to turn Sean into an entirely different person. And then it might have been Sean and Claire and Nolan in that photograph at the museum today, smiling for the camera.

My emotions tangle—at war with one another—the relief that it was me who got to experience the day clashing with the guilt of feeling grateful Sean was out of the way. That I got what I wanted after all.

I try to push the anger and sadness away and take the first bite of barbecue. “God. You weren’t kidding.”

“I know, right?”

After our morning at the museum, Claire dropped Nolan off at home to be with her parents. She had the rest of the afternoon free and was determined to keep her end of the bargain and help me at the house, so she picked up lunch and returned with a pack of Sharpies and price tags and the idea that the furniture might move faster if we posted the photos on a local yard sale site.

“You know,” she finally continues, “it’s actually good that this reception is happening here. I was struggling for a project idea for one of my business classes. We have to make a formal presentation, and I needed a business plan and marketing materials and projections—the works. The class ends in a few weeks, so it was coming down to the wire and I still had to get topic approval, and then it hit me. Why not take what we’re doing here and kill two birds with one stone?”

“Meaning?”

She swallows a bite of barbecue and coleslaw. “Meaning I am turning your house into a venue,” she says, pointing her plastic fork at me.

“A venue,” I repeat.

“Theoretically.”

“For receptions?”

“For everything. What would it cost to renovate to open up a couple of these rooms? What would a full-service catering kitchen run? How could we turn the backyard into a ceremony space? What would it take to renovate the upstairs so the bridal party can get ready on site? How would I market the space for corporate and private gatherings? How much revenue could a space like this in this area, with the right management, bring in?”

“How much?” I ask.

She laughs. “I don’t know, yet. I’m still working on numbers. But at least I’m moving forward. For a couple of weeks I thought I might have to take an incomplete or ask for an extension.”

“So you’re liking college?”

“So much better than high school,” she says. “So much.”

“I know. Freshman year was an adjustment, but the rest? Some days I wish I could’ve skipped junior high and high school altogether.”

“Me too,” Claire admits. “Only . . . we might never have met. There wouldn’t have been a Jesse and Buzz. I might’ve never dated Sean, which means no Nolan. I mean, as tough as it was, it’s hard to regret everything that happened.”

“Life can only be understood backwards,” I begin.

“But it must be lived forwards,” Claire finishes. “Kierkegaard.”

“I honestly don’t know how you do it all—balancing work and school and raising Nolan. You make it look so easy.”

“There are good days and bad days,” she admits.

“Maybe, but Nolan is a great kid, and I know that has everything to do with you.”

Pink undertones creep into her cheeks as she pokes at her barbecue. “Thank you. That means a lot coming from you.”

I clear my throat. “Sean would’ve thought so, too.” The words are harder to say than I anticipated, but I know they’re the right ones when Claire’s eyes, radiating a mix of both surprise and sadness, meet mine.

“You think?”

“Yeah. He would’ve adored Nolan.”

I say this like I am the authority on the subject, knowing it’s what she needs to hear. Because who knows? Knowing he had a child on the way could have changed Sean for the better.

Or . . . maybe old habits die hard. Sean was so into college. His social life. Maybe he wouldn’t have stepped up. Or maybe he would’ve tried and then resented Claire and Nolan for tying him down—holding him back.

I don’t want to think of my brother as a deadbeat dad. I don’t. I don’t want to think shitty of him at all. But I only have his past to go on, and all I know for sure about those days leading up to his accident is that he was cheating on Claire. Maybe he would’ve stuck around. Maybe he would’ve cut his losses. I don’t know. And I will never know, so it’s easier to pretend. As long as he isn’t around to prove otherwise, he can adore Nolan. And Claire. Hell, he can be Father of the Year.

“So let’s talk furniture,” she says, changing the subject. “What’s going?”

“Everything,” I say.

“Everything,” she repeats.

“Everything except my bedroom. And, I don’t know. Maybe a piece or two if I find something important. Most everything here is either mass-produced or falling apart, anyway. There’s nothing valuable about it.”

“What about sentimental value?” she asks.

“Surprisingly enough, I’m not that attached to material possessions,” I confess.

“Well, that should make it easy, then. Where do you want to start?”

“I don’t know. Dining room?”

“Sounds great.”

We finish our lunch and spend the next hour going through the downstairs rooms, sticking price tags on everything. I keep the furniture at five hundred or less, even though Claire thinks I should ask for more for the dining room table. She takes pictures of some of the larger pieces on her phone and posts them on the internet. Within an hour, she gets a text from someone asking if we’ll take three hundred for the sofa.

“If they can pick it up tomorrow,” I tell her.

She types into her phone. “I said yes, if they have their own truck and they can get it before noon.” She puts her phone back on the counter. “So why don’t you let me put some signs up around the neighborhood and we’ll see what kind of foot traffic we can get tomorrow.”

“We?” I ask.

“We’re in this together, remember? I’ll pick up doughnuts and bring Nolan. Unless I’m interfering, or you had something else in mind,” she says.

“No,” I say quickly. “No. It’s not like that. I appreciate the help. And the company, actually.” I exhale. “And, yeah, we should probably try to get this stuff out of here. The wedding is only a couple of weeks away.”

“I don’t want to push you into something you’re not ready for, so if you want to wait until next weekend. . . .” She trails off.

“It’s just stuff,” I say.

“It’s your stuff,” she replies. “It’s your family’s stuff. I understand if this is hard or if you’re having second thoughts. I mean, it’s just the first floor. We could put it in a storage unit temporarily if you’re not ready. It’s not a problem at all.”

I consider this for a moment—packing things up and putting them in storage to deal with later.

“Truthfully, whether we do this today or do it next year, I don’t think it’s going to be any easier. And I don’t want to keep all of this stuff. I really don’t.”

“Still, it’s hard,” she confirms.

“Harder than I thought it would be.”

I circle the room, removing pictures from the walls. Photos of my family. Of me and Sean as kids. Our grandparents. My parents at their wedding. I set them on the couch.

“Books can go into boxes,” I tell Claire. “Whatever doesn’t sell I’ll donate to the library.” She begins removing stacks of my parents’ books and placing them into boxes. “If you see anything you’re interested in keeping, go for it,” I say.

“Okay. Thanks.”

I remove the family photos from their frames and put them in a manila envelope. Most of the frames are gilded or tarnished or just old and nicked to pieces. I can always re-frame them later. When everything in the family room, living room, and dining room is either packed up in a “keep” box, a “donate” box, or priced to sell, Claire checks her phone. “The couch is sold. They’ll be here tomorrow morning at eight with their pick-up.”

“Perfect,” I say.

“And someone asked about the dining room table. They want to know how old it is.”

“I don’t know. My parents have had it as long as I can remember. I think it was my grandparents’. So . . . thirty years? I don’t know. My mom had the seats re-covered a few years ago.”

Claire responds, then labels the couch “SOLD.”

“What next?” she asks. “Do you want to work in the kitchen or upstairs?”

“There’s more furniture upstairs. Are you okay on time? When do you have to get back to Nolan?”

“I told my mom I’d be home in time to give him his bath, so we’re good.”

We each grab a handful of boxes and the packing tape and the stickers and markers and head upstairs. It’s warmer, even with the air on. The sun is staying up later, and the upstairs could use new insulation.

We start in my parents’ bedroom, which is mostly empty. It doesn’t take long to price the furniture. The guest bedrooms go quickly, too, and it’s not until we’re done that we realize what’s left.

Apart from my own room, Sean’s is the only one that remains. We both stand in the hall, frozen for a moment, staring at it.

“Are you—? I mean. . . .”

What I mean to ask is if she’s okay. If she’s okay opening that door and walking back into that room after more than four years. Maybe she’s not ready.

Maybe I’m not ready.

And even though it’s impossible to read her expression, she nods. “Yeah. You?”

“I’m good.” But even this comes out shaky and uncertain and neither of us says a word as I turn the handle only to discover the door is stuck—swollen shut from the change of the seasons. Cool to warm to hot to cool and back again, for however many springs and summers and winters this door has remained closed. I push it, then push harder, then harder, until it opens. Claire hesitates, but follows me inside.

It’s startling—the sameness of it all.

No one entered for months after the funeral. I was the one who finally went inside. The air was sour and stale, so I opened a window and turned on the fan and tried not to pay attention to the dust swirling, evidence of the time that had already elapsed. I picked up the towel he’d dried himself off with that morning. The last shower he ever took. The towel was hard—stiff and moldering. I tossed it out with the trash. I bagged his dirty clothes and carried them into the laundry room. I washed everything. Put it all away. Made his bed and straightened his stuff. Then I closed the door and didn’t come back.

“Wow,” Claire whispers, exhaling a ragged breath. She circles the room, running fingers across everything. The bedspread. The headboard. The curtains. The schoolbooks stacked on his desk. The jacket hanging over his chair. She studies the collection of shot glasses lining the shelf on the wall. His old baseball trophies. Loose change scattered haphazardly across the dresser. Some receipts from the gas station.

A few candid photographs are tucked inside the frame of his mirror: Sean, as content as I’d ever seen him. Claire’s beaming smile and bright eyes. Once upon a time, they were happy. In love. The photographs were proof of this.

She stands motionless for the longest time staring at these images, and when a tear slips down her cheek she wipes it away quickly and apologizes—says she’s sorry before I can even ask if she’s okay. “It’s just . . . we look so young,” she explains. “Like babies.”

Even stranger is that Sean will always look this young. While Claire and I will get older and Nolan will grow up, Sean will never age past nineteen. He will remain frozen in our memories, never older than he was in this photograph. Stranger still is that I am older now than my brother when he died. He never saw twenty. Or twenty-one. We will never see thirty together. He will never go gray or wrinkle. He’ll miss it all. He will never see his son graduate from kindergarten. High school. He will never teach Nolan to play baseball or how to drive.

Maybe I’m wrong about everything. Maybe he would’ve been an awesome father. Maybe I’m too stupid and jealous and petty to give him the credit he deserves. He might’ve gone to every doctor’s appointment. He might’ve driven Claire to the hospital that day, held her hand, reminded her to breathe as she pushed. He might have proposed and finished school and found a good job—enough to take care of her and Nolan both. And something tightens in my throat. Sean could’ve been an asshole, or he could’ve been the best thing that ever happened to them.

“It’s like . . . he’ll be home any second,” Claire says, choking on the words.

“I know.”

She takes one of the photos and removes it from the mirror. “This was at the beach. Early that December. We didn’t have anything to do that Saturday so we hopped in his car and drove. The sun was out but the air was so chilly—the wind coming in off the ocean whipping our hair around and chapping our lips. I bought a sweatshirt from one of those tacky beach shops and we walked along the shore for an hour. The place was dead. The town was dead. A lot of the stores were closed. Only a few locals were out. It was perfect. Just the two of us.”

I don’t have any memories like this of my brother to share, so I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to ruin her thoughts with commentary so we remain silent for what feels like forever, staring at the room and its contents, battling the memories and emotions, letting it all sink in.

It’s Claire who makes the first move, stepping back into the hallway and returning with an empty box. She folds shirts and pants to donate while I trash the contents of the dresser—old socks and boxers and workout clothes—and the athletic shoes at the foot of the closet. Together we gather old CDs and DVDs and video games. When we are done we carry everything into the hallway and set it by the stairs.

Claire wipes away the sweat gathering at her hairline with the back of her hand.

“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask.

She leans against the wall. “I should actually get going,” she says. “Nolan is probably finishing dinner. I’m sure he’s worn out from today.”

“Yeah,” I agree, but neither of us moves right away. We remain stranded at the top of the stairs, feeling the sun setting just beyond the walls, strange orange shadows filling the space between us.

“I’m not sure I could’ve done this without you,” I finally say. “So thank you. For everything.”

At this, she steps away from the wall and into me, and, barely thinking, I wrap my arms around her, pulling her tight, rest my chin on her head, close my eyes and breathe her in, feeling this pause before another goodbye.