TWENTY

CLAIRE

Ordering coffee for Jesse was, at first, a kind gesture. Today it is more peace offering. But as I climb the front steps of his home I’m swallowed by the futility of it all. Because how can a single cup of coffee fix everything that’s happened between us? How would this one act even begin to bridge the gap dividing us now?

God, he was handsome.

The last time I’d seen him in a suit was his father’s funeral, but this was so much more and it’s like my eyes couldn’t help but gravitate toward him every time we were in the same room, and all I could think about was every moment we’d spent together since he came home. Talking on the back porch. Laughing over slices of cheese pizza. Swinging on the tire swing—back and forth—a pendulum carrying me to him and away from him and to him and away from him. Reminiscing over beer and coffee and never at the same time. Lying on his bed, tangled in sheets.

I remembered every word I promised in those moments together—that we would make it—us—work. But I don’t know how I can face every day with Jesse knowing I am the reason his life unraveled at the seams. As perfect as everything feels with him, I am both joy and suffering. I am his heaven and his hell. How can what we have be any good if part of who I am represents so much of his own hurt and pain?

We make arrangements to clean our venues whenever no on-site staff is available. The church was handled yesterday, just in time for Sunday morning worship, and the caterer cleared out most of their things late last night, but a dance floor is still set up in the backyard and the vases of flowers and lights and sheer white linens draped throughout the house still need to be removed. The aisle runner remains in place, but the wind picked up overnight, scattering rose petals across the lawn, their edges already brown and crinkled.

A Post-it note sticks to the door, a message for me:

Stepped out. Spare behind flowers on left.

The house is quiet and empty. Only the skeleton of a party remains. Tables and cloths. Candles. A few stray programs. Favors left behind. Abandoned. Such a stark contrast to the night before, when the house was lit up and alive and full of people.

I exhale a deep breath and head into the kitchen, set the coffees on the counter and remove mine to take the first long sip. But before I’ve even swallowed I am remembering this counter. Legs wrapped around Sean, his body pressed against me, hands slipping up my shirt. But in the next moment there is Jesse, lips against mine, lifting my shirt over my head. Sean fumbling with my bra strap. Jesse’s mouth on my neck.

“The ghosts in this freaking house,” I mutter as my skin warms.

The crew arrives and a few hours later the house is entirely cleaned out, the downstairs rooms empty. Jesse is still nowhere to be found, and not that I blame him. This makes the third day in a row strange people have traipsed through his living space, making it their own. I wouldn’t want to hang around for clean-up, either. But I can’t shake the feeling that if things were okay between us he would’ve been here. And I know the only reason he “stepped out” was because of me—that he’s done being in the same room as me.

Our fight at the hospital plays on an endless loop as I make another pass through the house, checking to make sure everything is as it should be, and when I come to the staircase I climb the steps one by one, even though this space went unused. Jesse’s door is open. The bathroom door down the hall is open. Everything else is shut. I stop in front of Sean’s door, heart beating so fast it hurts, trying to muster the courage to open it and step inside.

And when I do . . . nothing.

I wait for the splinter. The shattering. The echo.

But the room is empty.

There is nothing here for me, nothing left of Sean or the time we spent together—his belongings scattered, spreading across the city. His bed in one home. Dresser in another. His clothes in various thrift stores throughout town. Leftover change in some kid’s bank. School books in another kid’s locker. His trash at various points at the county landfill. But nothing of him here.

He is really and truly gone.

Jesse’s room is disheveled, but empty in its own way. Clothes strewn across the floor. Comforter crumpled in a heap at the foot of the bed. I sit on the edge in the stream of warm sunlight filtering through the blinds, grab his pillow and hug it tightly to my chest. And even though I’m breathing in Jesse, I know that I am in here somewhere, too.

I am in Jesse’s room.

I am in Sean’s room.

I am on the kitchen counter and the tire swing and the porch.

I am in both living rooms.

I am parked at the street.

I am outside looking in and inside looking out.

It must suck to be so powerful.

Jesse’s words ring between my ears.

I hurry downstairs and lock up, leaving the spare key in the mailbox, sending a quick text message to let him know where to find it. Because I don’t want to be here when he returns. I can’t stand looking at him looking at me knowing what I’ve done.

Everything was fine until he came home. It was fine until I went on that walk with Mia—until I said hello. I should’ve never said hello. Because he was in love and I am in love and now we can’t take it back. It’s no wonder he’s not here. No wonder he doesn’t want to be near me. No wonder he doesn’t text me back.

* * *

On Sunday evening Nolan stands on a stool at the kitchen sink letting warm water pour over his hand while my mother supervises. It’s the first time we’re able to wash it.

“It already looks better, don’t you think?” she asks no one in particular.

But all I can see are the black tracks across his tiny palm—the silvery line that will snake across his hand as he grows, the explanation he will have to keep close for anyone curious enough to ask. Whether he remembers the day or not, this scar will never not be part of him.

“You can stop trying to make me feel better,” I tell her.

“Claire,” she begins.

“No, Mom, I can’t right now. Can’t you just let me feel guilty about this for a few more days?”

“You think that’s going to help?” she asks. “Do you really think that’s ever helped anyone? Things happen, Claire. Accidents happen. No one blames you. Nolan doesn’t blame you. I don’t blame you. Jesse doesn’t blame you. And beating yourself up over this—torturing yourself—not giving yourself permission to move on—it’s unhealthy.”

I flinch at the sound of his name coming from her lips, the blood in my veins running cold at the words, as if we’re not talking about Nolan at all. But that’s impossible because I never told my mother about the text messages I sent to Sean the morning he died. I never told anyone. She never knew he was cheating on me. I didn’t tell her we were fighting. She has no idea I’ve been beating myself up every day for over four years. She has no idea that accidents do happen—they happen when I’m not careful. When I let them in. When I let them go.

So we can’t be talking about Sean. Or Jesse.

“Where is Uncle Jesse?” Nolan asks.

I pull his comforter closer to his chin, tucking him in for the night, my guilt manifesting itself in an extra two books before bedtime.

“He’s at his house,” I reply, turning off his lamp. My eyes adjust as his corner nightlight shifts to maximum brightness.

“When can we see him?”

“I don’t know, sweetie. We had a busy weekend.” I run my fingers through his blonde hair, pushing it off his forehead.

“He’s moving away.”

“What? Where did you hear that?” It’s impossible to hide my surprise. I tried so hard to keep the fact that Jesse would be leaving soon from him. I wanted them to get to know each other, to break it to him gently, then make whatever arrangements I could so saying goodbye—even temporarily—wouldn’t hurt so much. But maybe my mom was right. Maybe I shouldn’t have let them spend so much time together knowing it wouldn’t last.

“He has a new job.”

“He does,” I admit.

“He’s selling his house.”

“I know.”

“When can I see him?”

“I don’t know, baby.”

“Before he goes?”

“I hope so. I’ll call him, and we’ll work something out, okay? You’ll see him before he moves.”

“You promise?” Nolan asks.

“I promise.”

* * *

On Monday I walk Nolan into his preschool classroom so I can fill in his teacher about Friday’s accident. He won’t be able to use his right hand for any kind of writing or drawing activities, and he needs to be careful during playtime, and while she assures me they will take good care of him, I still regret walking out that door—leaving him there—especially when I have the day off.

As a company, we always aim to take the Monday after a wedding, and today I’m using the free day to catch up on errands when I could’ve stayed home and played with my son, who desperately wants to see his uncle before he moves four hours away. I’m in line at the dry cleaner’s drive-thru waiting to pick up my clothes when I text Jesse.

Nolan wants to see you before you go.

He’s not busy or away from his phone because in a few seconds I have a response: When?

When are you leaving?

I take a deep breath and exhale, not sure if I want to know the exact answer to this question because it only makes it more official. He’s leaving. A deadline looms in the not so distant future.

Thursday morning.

An ache settles in the pit of my stomach, that familiar lump inching its way to my throat. Thursday. I force the surge of sadness away. I mean, I knew this moment was coming. I prepared myself for it. I thought if I could let him go sooner rather than later then it wouldn’t hurt so much.

I should’ve never gone on that walk with Mia. I should’ve never stopped to talk to him. Or maybe I should’ve texted more. Called him sooner. We could’ve had more time together. I could’ve avoided this situation if I would have been honest with him in the first place. Instead, I let four silent years—and their secrets—settle between us.

My thoughts war with one another until it’s my turn at the window. I give the employee my name and ticket number and she leaves in search of my clothes.

I type quickly.

Dinner on Wednesday at our house?

Without hesitation: Sure.

And for some reason this makes the knot grow thicker. Tears spring to my eyes.

The window re-opens and the worker passes me the hangers with my clean clothes. I pay with my bank card, swiping tears and checking my reflection in the rearview mirror while I wait for my receipt.

When the transaction ends I don’t leave the parking lot right away. I pull into one of the spaces instead because I don’t think I can drive. And as I put the car in park everything tumbles over me at once, pulling me under, leaving me gasping, breathless, desperate for air.

Leaving me wondering how much longer I can go on like this.

* * *

“Uncle Jesse!” Nolan races across the foyer and reaches the front door before I can even put down the silverware I’m placing at each setting, and when they enter the dining room, Nolan is in Jesse’s arms and my pulse ratchets a degree.

“Hey,” he says easily.

I struggle to find my voice. “Hi.”

“Thanks for the invite, little man,” he says, pinching Nolan’s stomach. Nolan laughs. “You too,” he tells me. But I can only nod before turning my attention back to setting the table—straightening forks and knives and wine glasses.

“How’s the hand?”

Nolan wiggles his fingers.

“Almost good as new,” Jesse says.

“The doctor says I’m going to have a scar.” It’s difficult to tell by his tone if he’s happy about this or disappointed.

“Ah, but that’s okay. Girls love scars.”

Sean.

That’s exactly what Sean would’ve told him if he were here. And it works, because Nolan smiles.

Jesse sets Nolan down as my dad enters the dining room.

“Jesse. It’s good to see you again.”

“Mr. Tyndall,” Jesse says, extending a hand for him to shake.

“Please. It’s Richard. So Claire tells us you’re shipping out tomorrow.”

“First thing in the morning,” he says. “Everything’s loaded and ready to go.” I feel him steal a glance in my direction and again I focus on silverware because I’m not sure I can meet his eyes without being tossed recklessly.

“Job starts Monday?”

“Yes, sir. So I’ll have the weekend to get unpacked and settled.”

“Good. Not that we won’t miss seeing you around here,” he quickly adds, in case it sounded too much like we would be glad to see him go.

“No. I’m looking forward to the opportunity. I’m going to work hard and learn everything I can and see where I am in six months.”

At this, my mom enters the dining room, oven mitts on each hand, carrying a large casserole dish covered with tin foil. I arrange two pot holders at the center of the table so she can set it down.

“Smells delicious,” Jesse said.

“Thank you. It’s lasagna. I hope you came hungry because we have plenty of it.” She removes the tinfoil, which pulls up a few strings of melted mozzarella, and rolls it into a ball. I know it can’t be my imagination. She seems almost pleased Jesse is here.

And the other day, after Nolan’s accident, it was like she was a different person. Jesse did something. He must have said something to change her mind about him. Why else would she have been so open to hosting him for dinner? Why else would she be glad to see him? And, come to think of it, she hasn’t said anything disparaging about him or his family in a week.

How had I not noticed this?

My dad pours everyone half a glass of wine and we dig in. Nolan nibbles at his chicken nuggets but mostly fills up on chocolate milk. Since the accident, Mom has been making him whatever he asks for, and I think that, despite everything she’s said, she feels a little guilty, too.

The conversation stays friendly throughout the meal. The weather. Local news. My mother asks about Saturday’s wedding.

“It was beautiful,” Jesse says. “A gorgeous day. And Claire did an amazing job.”

“Such a stressful industry,” my mom says, shaking her head. “I’m not sure I’d want that kind of responsibility. So much money spent on one day. How much did we spend on our wedding, Richard?”

My dad shrugs, chewing a bite of lasagna. “I don’t know. Fifteen grand or so,” he says. “But that was a different time. And I do remember your parents bristling at the cost of your dress.”

“It was a Vera Wang!”

“I’m sure Claire’s brides feel the same way,” he says.

“But now the dresses alone are ten grand,” I tell them.

“What about the house, Jesse?” Mom asks, changing the subject.

“The house looked incredible. Deb and the florists did a great job. I almost didn’t recognize the space.”

“I mean, Claire mentioned you got an offer.”

He sits taller, hesitating. “I did.”

“One worth considering?” my dad asks.

“It was solid. I spoke to Cathy on Sunday and we decided to counter. The couple who’s interested countered back yesterday. It would only be about a hundred grand off the asking price.”

“That’s quite a nest egg.”

“It is,” he agrees, but I notice he’s concentrating unusually hard on cutting bites of lasagna with his fork, that he doesn’t want to talk about the house, or the sale of the house, or even how much money he’s going to walk away with after closing, which, if he’s smart, could easily set him up for the rest of his life. And I know because Friday we argued about this—he was trying to figure out a way to stay. He didn’t want to sell.

Maybe it’s good that we had that fight. Not only does he know the truth, but maybe now he can do what he needs to do without feeling conflicted. He can sell the house and focus on his internship.

As soon as Nolan finishes his chicken nuggets he’s ready to play, so the rest of us finish our meals quickly. I start to clear the table as he and Jesse head upstairs.

“Your dad and I can handle the dishes,” my mom says. “Go on.”

“No, it’s okay,” I say, stacking plates and gathering dirty napkins.

“No, Claire. Your dad and I will take care of clean-up. Spend this time with Nolan and Jesse.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I confess, trying to keep my voice low.

“Look, I don’t know what’s happened between the two of you this last week, but it can be fixed.”

I stifle a laugh. “I don’t think so, Mom.”

“Anything can be fixed. Apologies. Time. Forgiveness. Love. That’s all you need.”

“I thought you didn’t like Jesse,” I point out.

“Anything can be fixed,” she repeats sternly, taking the stack of plates from my hands and carrying them into the kitchen.

When I reach Nolan’s room he and Jesse are sitting on the floor playing with the two Captain America figures—brothers. I watch them interact. Banding together to defeat the bad guys. Laughing at each other’s jokes. Until my mom passes by the door and reminds us it’s getting late and Nolan needs a bath. “I can handle bedtime if you two want to step out for a while,” she tells us.

“I have a busy day tomorrow,” I say. “But I can walk you to your car.”

“I walked,” he says.

“I can walk you out, then.”

“Okay,” Mom says. “Well, let’s get going, Nolan. Bath time.”

“Tell Uncle Jesse thanks for playing,” I say.

Nolan sits slouched on the floor, lips pulled into a deep frown. “Thanks for playing.”

“I had a great time, little man,” Jesse says. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“I don’t want you to go away,” Nolan says.

And something cracks inside my chest. I can hear it in Nolan’s voice and see it in Jesse’s eyes—three hearts made of glass, breaking all at once.

“We’ll see him soon,” I say. “We’re going to talk on the phone and video chat. And we’ll plan a day to visit once Uncle Jesse gets settled in.”

Jesse’s eyes connect with mine, and I know he wants to know if I’m serious about this. If I’m telling the truth—that we’re not going to let the distance of these next six months drive a wedge between us. He finally has a family again. Whatever happened between the two of us, it doesn’t change the fact that Nolan is his nephew and that they need each other. “We’ll talk all the time. I promise,” I tell him. “In fact, let’s schedule our first video chat. I don’t have a wedding this weekend so I can do Saturday after dinner. Would seven-thirty work?” I ask, opening the calendar on my phone.

“That would be great,” he says, seeming relieved. We type the information into our phones. “Saturday night. Seven-thirty. We’ll video chat. I’ll show you my new place.”

This seems to appease Nolan. He hugs Jesse and runs off to take his bath. Jesse gathers a handful of toys and carries them to the toy box.

“You don’t have to do that,” I tell him. “I’ll take care of it.” But he doesn’t listen and we work together quietly, straightening Nolan’s room.

Jesse tells my mother goodbye on his way down the hall. Thanks her for the meal. My dad, who is already downstairs and in his recliner watching the business channel recapping the day’s stock market growth, gets another handshake. “Don’t be a stranger, Jesse,” he says.

“I won’t, sir.”

And soon it’s just the two of us outside on the front porch. The sun has already set. It’s not quite dark enough for stars but the sky is a deep indigo blue. And despite everything that’s happened between us, despite how things ended on Friday, I do not want to say this goodbye.

I’m not ready.

I swallow hard, clear my throat. “Can I walk you home?”

“Nah,” he says, exhaling. “We’d get there and I would want to walk you back home and the night would never end and I have a pretty long drive tomorrow.”

“I am so sorry, Jesse. About Friday.”

“It wasn’t one of our best days together,” he agrees, a playful edge to his voice.

“I’m serious.”

“I still love you, Claire,” he says easily. “One fight isn’t going to change that.”

I fold my arms across my chest, struggle to hold my voice level. “I just don’t know how you can, knowing the truth about me. About everything.”

His shoulders lift. “And yet . . . I do. Because maybe that’s what love is. And my love? It comes with no strings attached. No expectations. No pressure. I love you, and that is all.”

A tear slips down my cheek. I wipe it away and nod, trying to keep my composure.

“So . . . I guess I’ll talk to you and Nolan on Saturday,” he says.

“Please text me when you get there,” I insist. “Just . . . some updates. So I know everything is okay.”

He smiles. “I will text you.”

“And drive carefully, and all that,” I add.

“I will.”

We stand on my porch in silence for what seems like forever. Neither of us wanting to say our final goodbyes. Until Jesse reaches for my sleeve and pulls me closer to him and I let myself fall into his chest. He wraps his arms around me, holding me tightly against him. His lips touch my forehead in the gentlest kiss goodbye.

“Not goodbye,” he says then, as if reading my mind. “More like . . . see you soon.”

“See you soon,” I repeat, nearly choking on the words.

We disentangle ourselves from each other’s arms and I watch Jesse skip down the front steps and across the lawn, weave between our cars and move into the street. The street lamps flicker to life. I watch him pass beneath one. And then another. And at the end of the block he looks back at me. And I don’t know if he is surprised to see me still standing there, still watching, but he brings two fingers to his lips, as if kissing them, then holds them up in a wave. So I repeat the gesture. Kiss my fingers. Wave. Force a smile even as my heart constricts and continues aching long after he disappears.