THIRTEEN

JESSE

The morning my brother died my cell phone “dinged” from my back pocket. I heard it above the din of the senior hallway—the shouts and the squeals and the locker doors slamming in intervals. A cacophony of ringtones and bells, and yet I knew somehow that this one belonged to me. It was mine. My phone was only turned on because I hadn’t made it to homeroom, yet. Buzz and I had just dropped off Claire at the side door and parked. I’d changed out my books from the night before, grabbing the ones required for my first classes of the day. Two minutes later and the phone would have been shut off. The school enforced a strict “no phones in class policy,” and I was a rule follower.

I was angry at the time of the “ding.” Angry because everyone around me seemed to think I was obsessed with Claire. My brother, for one, and Buzz had even ripped into me as soon as she was out of the car, telling me what an idiot I was to give her my coat, and how desperate I looked in the rearview mirror when he suggested they go on a road trip without me. Hell, Claire probably knew how I felt about her. I couldn’t even pretend to play it cool when she was around. She was like this disease that had overtaken my whole being, a plague lording over my body, and I was eroding from it—wasting away from the inside out—because it wasn’t like that between us. It couldn’t be. She was in love with my brother, for God’s sake.

My brother, who was cheating on her.

Who didn’t deserve her.

Thnx 4 nothin prick.

The text was from Sean.

“Asshole,” I muttered, scoffing at the words. He’d made himself late. It had nothing to do with me. His cheating on Claire had nothing to do with me, either. I wracked my brain for a worthy comeback—something witty to put him in his place, at least temporarily. But by the time I reached homeroom I had nothing but a string of names to call him. It didn’t matter, anyway. He’d have to tell Claire about the other girl. He would tell her, or I would—that was the deal. He had twenty-four hours to come clean. It wasn’t worth it, so I shut off my phone and shoved it back into my pocket and forgot all about him.

For about an hour, at least.

Thnx 4 nothin prick.

Those were the last words he ever said to me.

* * *

Sunday is quiet.

I roll out of bed early because it’s impossible to sleep. I have nothing to do except clean more house and I’m not ready to do that so I dress and put on my sneakers and go for a quick run. My route takes me past Claire’s house and into a city that is nearly dead. Everyone—except me—is sleeping in. Barely a dog walker is out.

I return to my house drenched in sweat—suffocating from the mid-June humidity—and grab a flyer from the information box attached to the For Sale sign in the front yard.

Photos. House specs. Neighborhood information. Asking price: 1.3 million. With the renovations needed, Cathy said we should expect offers to come in between nine hundred thousand and a million, then negotiate up. Lately, whenever I had second thoughts about selling the home that had been in my family for generations, I focus on what my bank account would look like if I got the full listing price. This is immediately followed, of course, by feelings of greed and self-loathing. A family home should stay in the family. But then I think about what my bank account would look like if I kept the house. That is, mostly empty. The truth is I don’t have the time or cash on hand to keep the place. It would only be a burden, more baggage to deal with.

I have enough baggage as it is.

After a quick shower, I spend several hours lugging boxes from the attic to the second floor, and from the second floor to the first, until all that’s left upstairs is the bed I’m sleeping on, my chest of drawers, and my nightstand. These are going with me to the new apartment. Every other room is empty. The afternoon is spent cleaning out most of the kitchen, tossing old utensils and pots and pans and saving whatever I could use or donate. I leave a message with a local charity asking if they can send someone by to pick up the remaining furniture and boxes.

The house is too quiet—too still and empty—so I stream internet radio from my phone to fill some of the space and sweep half of the first floor, removing years of dust hidden by furniture, before deciding the effort isn’t worth it and leaving a message with a cleaning service to see what they might charge to get thirty-eight hundred square feet reception-ready.

I take another shower because I’m sweaty again, covered in attic dust, then head out to pick up some dinner. When I return, I notice the lawn could use mowing and—shit—realize I haven’t tackled the shed in the backyard, yet: the riding mower and push mower and weed eater and leaf blower, and the drills and saws and other tools my dad kept around “just in case” but never quite got his money’s worth from.

My phone hasn’t rung or beeped or trilled or buzzed once.

I eat dinner. I lie in bed and watch a movie on my laptop. I drink a beer.

And then another.

And part of another.

And then, against my better judgment, I call her.

The call goes straight to voicemail.

“Hey, it’s Jesse,” I begin, forming the words slowly. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry about yesterday and the things that I said. I am an asshole, for lack of a better word. The thing is . . . I’m jealous, Claire. Of David, I mean. I’m jealous that he’s here and you’re here and your mom is orchestrating this whole thing with him when she hates my guts. . . . And I hate that, in a few weeks, I’m not going to be around anymore and he’s going to get to take you to dinner and I won’t. And the thing is, I want to. Be around, I mean. I want to eat dinner with you and Nolan every night because when I do it’s like . . . everything is okay for a couple of hours, you know? Life is good. And I don’t want to screw this up, so I’m sorry for being an ass. It was petty and selfish of me and I will get over it because I want you to be happy. I do. And if that means you go out with David and fall in love with him and he gets the dinners every night with you and Nolan, then that’s fine. I’m not going to stand in your way. Because, more than anything, I want you to be happy, Claire-bear,” I repeat. “Yeah. I’m an ass, and I’m sorry, and I will be better. I promise. That’s all I wanted to say.”

I disconnect the call and place my phone on the bed beside me, then search for another movie to watch on my computer. Twenty minutes later my phone rings.

It’s Claire.

“Are you drunk?” she asks, not bothering to say hello.

“No,” I reply. “I am sitting here feeling miserable and thinking about you and feeling miserable.”

“You are so drunk,” she says, matter of fact. “Do you need anything?”

I scoff. “No. And I only had like, two beers.”

“Four years of college and you’re still a lightweight?”

I smile. “I wish I could take offense to that.”

“You’re staying in, right?”

“I am already in bed for the night. How pathetic is that?”

“So there’s nothing I can do for you?”

“Yes, there is, actually. You can forgive me. You can say, ‘Jesse, you were an asshole yesterday, but the fact that you had the balls to call me up and admit it shows the kind of person you truly are, so I forgive you.’” When she doesn’t immediately say anything, like maybe she doesn’t want to forgive me, I add: “I’m a good guy, Claire. A good guy with some bad moments.”

She exhales a defeated sigh. “You were kind of an ass yesterday, but . . . I forgive you.”

“Thank you.”

“So . . . are we still set for Thursday?” she asks.

“Final meeting with the decorator. Yes,” I confirm.

“Okay. I’ll see you then.”

“You’re my favorite, Claire-bear. You always have been. You know that, right?”

Again, she hesitates, leaving a few beats of silence between us. “I do.”

“Good.”

“Good night, Jesse.”

“Good night.”

The following morning I wake with a headache, so I pour the last of the beers down the drain and throw the bottles into recycling. Claire texts me around nine, asking how I’m feeling.

Fine, I reply.

But I don’t apologize for anything I said to her on the phone. I don’t play it off or make excuses—pretend it was the beer talking—because I remember it all—everything I said—and I meant every word.

A moving van from the charity pulls to the curb as I’m mowing the lawn. Two guys hop out, ready to take the last big pile of furniture and boxes. I show them inside and as they begin hauling out the items I notice a box marked Sean. The handwriting is Claire’s, so I know it’s one she packed. I open the flaps and look inside. His clothes—the items we didn’t toss for age or wear—the shirts and shorts and jeans that still seemed to have a second life in them—are folded neatly, one of his favorite flannel shirts on top.

“This one going?” one of the guys asks.

The rest of the foyer is empty, and the “yes” is perched on my lips. It’s packed and ready to go. Sorted through. There’s no logical reason to say no. But I do. I tell him I’m keeping this one and slide it to the wall with my foot. I tip them with some of the cash I made on Saturday and call Lynette Sutton. The receptionist puts me through.

“Hi, Jesse. How is everything?”

“Good. The house is almost empty, and I’ve got a company coming later this week to do a deep cleaning. Everything is just about ready.”

“Perfect.”

“I was actually calling about something else, though,” I admit.

“Okay,” she replies, mildly curious.

“I have a bunch of Sean’s old shirts and I want to do something with them for Claire. I was wondering if you knew someone who was good with a sewing machine and could manage a quick turnaround. Money wouldn’t be an issue.”

“Of course. I know just the guy to help. Let me make the phone call and get back to you. He owes me a favor.”

* * *

Lynette comes through for me quicker than I expect, and a guy named Hans calls after lunch, inviting me to his studio and workshop. He’s on the second floor of one of the older historic buildings downtown, so I have to carry the box of clothes up a flight of stairs. The interior space is incredible: hardwood floors, twelve-foot ceilings, wall-to-wall windows.

The largest section of the brightly lit space is set up as a gallery featuring paintings and sculptures and a selection of original clothing and accessories. Hans’ workshop is in the back, and this is where he invites me to join him, surrounded by a mess of sewing machines and fabric, a long rack of evening and wedding gowns rolled to one side of the space.

“I know, but you should have seen this place during prom season,” he says, as if reading my mind. “Nothing but taffeta and glitter and plunging necklines as far as the eye could see.”

“I appreciate you doing this for me,” I say, handing him the box. “I know it’s last-minute.”

“Are you kidding me? Claire is a doll baby. I would rope the moon for that girl. And I am totally putting her in charge of my one-day wedding, and I trust no one, so that I’m willing to relinquish that control to her, in itself, speaks volumes.”

I smile. “Yeah, she’s great.”

“So are you two. . . .” He trails off, setting the box on one of his worktables.

Dating? Together? He doesn’t have to say the words. “No. It’s not like that between us.”

He sucks his teeth. “But you wish it was,” he says.

My cheeks warm. “I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t have to. Your expression tells me everything I need to know, sweet pea.” He opens the box and picks through the shirts, examining each one to see what he’s working with.

“Ah. And what does it say, exactly?”

“It says, ‘Keep away. I’m pining for the girl of every straight man’s dreams’.”

I’ll admit, that is something like the truth. First my older brother, and now David, who drives a luxury SUV and plays golf and reeks of former frat boy trust fund kid. I can’t help but laugh. “You’re pretty close, actually.”

“Has she officially friend-zoned you or is it implied?” he asks.

“She has in the past, but we’ve recently reconnected, so I’m not sure how she feels, to be honest.”

“Honey, the older I get the more tired I get of playing games. Sometimes it’s best to be open and honest as soon as possible and let things go from there. Just lay it all out. No regrets.”

“Yeah, well, our situation is a bit more difficult than that. I don’t want to ruin anything.”

“Well, don’t you worry. I’m going to work my magic up in here and, when I’m done with all of this,” he says, waving his hand over the box, “Claire is going to love you forever.”

“That’s not quite what I’m aiming for with this project,” I say, “but let’s just say if Claire loving me forever is one of the bonuses, then I’ll owe you. Big time.”

“I’ll settle for an invitation to the wedding and a box of tissues.”

“Deal.”