THREE

JESSE

After my last fight with Sean—the morning of the day he died—I headed downstairs, putting as much physical distance between us as quickly as possible. I remember passing family portraits on my way down, a visual progression of the years growing between us. My lighter hair and glasses—until I got contacts. Sean’s darker features and broad shoulders—strong and confident. That stupid grin that got him whatever he wanted, even Claire.

Especially Claire.

“It’ll never work out!” he’d called after me. “You’re not her type!”

I ignored him, jogged into the kitchen, my new tennis shoes squeaking against the wood floors. My mom was at the counter, scrolling through something on her phone. The Keurig was hissing, the dishwasher running—whirring and clicking its way through the cycle.

It’s crazy the details I remember about that day.

I remember thinking, for instance, that the only way the dishwasher would be running in the morning was if Sean had forgotten to start it the night before—that it was so like him to be completely undependable. Not that anyone seemed to notice.

“What’s going on?” Mom asked.

“Nothing.” I grabbed two cherry breakfast bars from the pantry and a bottled water from the fridge.

In a few short hours, I would puke those bars up on the hospital lawn. After that, I would never eat one again. I wouldn’t even be able to look at them without feeling nauseous.

“I don’t get it, Jesse. Why can’t the two of you get along for ten minutes? I thought you were supposed to grow out of this,” Mom had said.

“I’m catching a ride with Buzz,” I told her, because I didn’t know what else to say. I didn’t know why my brother and I weren’t friends—why we always seemed to be at war with one another.

“Why isn’t Sean ready?”

“I don’t know. He’s just not.”

“Sean?” she called.

“I’m not waiting for him, Mom. He’s not even dressed. I can’t be late.”

“Sean!” She moved to the stairs, planted a hand on her hip. He must have appeared at the top because she confirmed what I’d just told her: “You’re not even dressed! We’ve talked about this, Sean. People are counting on you. Your brother. Claire. That was the deal we made. You promised you would take your brother to school before you headed to campus.”

“I’m not waiting for him,” I told her.

“I’ll be ready in two minutes!” Sean argued.

Mom turned to me. “Jesse, please?”

“No. I’m not waiting. I have to rush as it is.” I grabbed my bookbag and headed for the door. Sean was still reassuring her. Convincing her he wouldn’t be late. That he was almost ready. Just two more minutes.

She’d sighed and turned to me, massaging her temples with her fingers, already working on a headache. “Jesse, can you and Buzz take Claire with you?”

Above me, Sean scoffed. “I’m sure he has no problem with that,” he said.

“No, Mom. This isn’t my fault. I’m tired of cleaning up his messes.”

“There’s no mess to clean up!” Sean replied. “I’d be done already if we weren’t still arguing!”

“Sean, you’re late. It’s not fair to your brother or Claire. They’re riding with Buzz.”

“Great. She’s all yours, Jesse. You can thank me later.”

“Yeah. Thanks for nothing,” I growled.

“What is going on, you guys?” Mom cried in frustration.

And that’s why I wasn’t in the car with my brother when he lost control and tore through a guardrail. Flipped end over end. Barely made it to the hospital before he died.

I wasn’t with him.

We weren’t with him.

Claire and I?

We’d gotten another ride that morning.

* * *

“I can’t believe how warm it is already!” Claire yells, shielding her eyes against the mid-morning sun. We’re standing in my front yard supervising the removal of the oversized magnolia tree. The holly bush has already come down and workers are chopping it up into smaller pieces and carrying the parts to the trailer at the street. It’s like dueling chainsaws, and I’m anxiously awaiting the neighbors’ complaints.

“I know!” I shout back. “The humidity is off the charts!”

She smiles in response, and the temperature elevates at least another ten degrees, though I’m not sure why I still let her affect me like this. After more than four years apart I should have outgrown my feelings for her, but she shows up and it’s like I’m twelve again. Fourteen. Sixteen. The memories come flooding back.

Claire arrived on time, pulling her light blue BMW SUV to the curb just before the crew showed up, and when she stepped out dressed for work—white pants that hugged her every curve, navy sweater, sleeves pushed past her elbows, her blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, notebook tucked in her arm and phone in hand—it was a brutal reminder that no, we weren’t kids anymore. God. At twenty-one, Claire was way more woman than child.

I met her on the porch in my own—woefully inadequate—shorts and t-shirt, more frat boy than man. We transferred polite “good mornings” to each other, but when I asked if she wanted me to grab her a coffee, she refused. My surprise—and disappointment—must have shown or she must have picked up something in my expression because she quickly explained that she’d just finished a cup. Another would just make her jittery.

Now, as much as I need one, I can’t bring myself to leave, and for a moment we really are twelve years old again and she’s lying on that cardboard box in her front yard reading a Nancy Drew mystery, a tractor-trailer parked at the street, movers filling their hand-trucks with boxes and unloading them inside. I made one loop around the block that day, then came back. And when she noticed me for the second time I couldn’t just race off. I definitely couldn’t circle around again. So I struggled to find my voice, then said hello.

She smiled in response.

I would spend the next nine years of my life trying to erase that smile from memory.

“The humidity is the worst part! I could never be a June bride!” she says.

“You prefer winter?” I ask, and I can’t believe I hadn’t thought to look—to check her left hand to see. It’s been years. There has to have been someone. There could be someone right now.

“No! December is too hard because you’re competing with Christmas parties. January is hard because everyone is recovering from Christmas. February is so dreary. . . . I don’t know. I’d have to go with October, maybe.”

I steal another glance, but she’s holding her phone and I still can’t catch a glimpse.

The chainsaw motors fade until they are completely stopped and the world is eerily quiet again.

“October,” I repeat. “That’s random, for a wedding.”

“No, it’s not,” she counters. “It’s a nice, fall month. Not too hot but not too cold. And the colors are beautiful. The reds, oranges, and yellows?”

“So you’d plan a pumpkin spice kind of wedding,” I say.

Her eyes brighten. “I would plan a pumpkin spice kind of life if I could.”

I smile. “Ah. You’re one of those girls. I know your type.”

“The type who spends ten months out of the year waiting for pumpkin spice season?”

“I thought you were above the hype.”

“There is no hype because that implies an exaggeration or deception, like something doesn’t live up to expectations. Pumpkin spice does not fall into that category.”

“Yeah. I’m not sure I get the appeal.”

“I could convert you,” she says.

“You think?”

“In a second. It’s a shame you won’t be around come September.”

It’s a sobering reminder. I’m packing up. Selling the house. Moving on. The conversation dies with the reality that we’re only here—together like this—because there’s work to do, and only for the next few weeks. After that, we’ll go our separate ways and it will be like none of this ever happened.

Another quick check and . . . her finger is empty. No ring.

Still, she could be dating someone or living with someone. But no, she said she was at home. Is it possible she hasn’t dated anyone since Sean?

The men remove the last of the holly bush and begin grinding the stump. The magnolia is roped and about to come down. Claire divides her attention between the workers and her phone—supervising and texting and back again until she steps away to make a call.

When she returns, the tree is down.

“It’s crazy how much house that tree was blocking,” she says. Her phone dings, and she sends out another message.

“Busy day?” I ask.

“Every day is busy. We’re juggling dozens of weddings at any given time, all in different stages of planning. This weekend is the Bennett wedding.”

“What does that look like?”

“That looks like a wedding and reception at the country club. Mostly easy for us, because everything is on site. We’ve had future mother-in-law issues, though. She’s divorced and doesn’t want her husband’s new wife anywhere near her at the ceremony or reception. The groom has a good relationship with both parents and doesn’t understand why they can’t all share a row like normal human beings. The florist was shipped lilies instead of amaryllis, so we are quite literally overnighting fifty bunches from California to the tune of eight hundred dollars.”

“That’s a lot of drama for one event,” I say.

“That is our life. Daily.” Another ding. “It’s good, though. When you do these things over and over again you realize what’s important and what isn’t. I will take quiet, fall wedding with a few close friends and family and Fresh Market flowers any day of the week.”

“Come on. You don’t want to drop ten grand on a reception site that needs serious renovations?” I say, sweeping my arms wide for her to behold the yard and the house and everything we have to accomplish in the next few weeks.

“Absolutely not. But I can work professionally alongside anyone who does.”

She types something into her phone, frowning.

“You know, they’re almost done here,” I say. “You don’t have to stick around if you have something else to do. I can handle it.”

“Actually, I do need to head out soon,” she confesses. “But I need an update on landscaping and pressure washing, and we’ll need invoices.”

“That’s all right. I’m going to take care of it. I’ve got a guy coming Friday to pressure wash and landscapers scheduled for early next week.”

“Are you sure? Because the Porters said they are more than willing to do whatever it takes to make this place reception-ready.”

“I’m sure,” I insist. “It was on my to-do list, anyway. For the house. I mean, they’re dropping a shitload of money to borrow my first floor for a couple of days. I can’t charge them for everything.”

Another smile. “I still can’t believe what they’re paying you for what amounts to forty-eight hours.”

“Ten thousand isn’t the going rate, these days?”

“For this size?” she asks, assessing the house. “Not unless it’s all-inclusive. Let’s just say you got more than fair market value.”

“One man’s desperation is another man’s gain.”

“That is the truth, especially in this industry.”

“Speaking of this industry,” I begin, “how did you get into wedding planning, anyway? If I recall, the last time I saw you, you wanted a degree in art history.”

“That was mostly to piss off my dad,” she admits, “but he was wildly supportive of the idea. No, I didn’t start out with this career in mind, and I’m not a wedding planner, exactly. I’m just an assistant. I do logistics. Make things happen.”

“Still, it seems important.”

Her cheeks flush at the compliment. “My parents—my mom, especially—see this as more of a placeholder. Temporary. Just ‘okay’ until I get everything else in my life together. But the truth is, deadlines and stress and anxious brides aside, I like what I do. I love the feeling at the end of a reception when the bride and groom take off in their limo or classic car or horse and carriage and the day was everything they expected—everything the bride wanted it to be.”

“That does sound pretty magical,” I admit.

“Yeah, so I got the job because I answered an ad. Lynette brought me on for a thirty-day trial. Apparently, she is hard to work for and has trouble keeping receptionists.”

“She’s not hard to work for?” I ask.

“Oh, no. She’s a pit bull,” Claire says. “But I can handle it. I know her. I know her rules and expectations. I know the business now. I’m learning to put out fires before they start—with the exception of this event, since putting out the fire in Mia’s life meant setting off a bomb in yours.”

“There are worse things,” I tell her.

“Yeah,” she agrees, and I know she gets it. She understands what I mean when I say this. But just as she opens her mouth to say something else, her phone rings and she has to step away to take the call. The interruptions run rampant, leaving no time for a real conversation, and that sucks because I want to talk to her. I want to know how she’s doing. If she’s okay—how long it took to be okay, because I don’t think I’ve gotten there, yet.

When she returns, we are back to the business at hand: “We still need to talk paint samples. If you’re not doing anything on Sunday, can I bring them by?”

“Sure.”

“Great. I’ll text you the time. And don’t forget our meeting with the decorator is Monday at ten.”

“Got it.”

She takes a few steps backward. “I have to head out, but if you have any questions or run into a problem, call or text me, okay?” she insists. “My phone is always on.”

The workers finish removing the last of the magnolia tree and haul off the remnants, and within the hour all that’s left in the yard are two piles of dirt. Inside, the house is quiet—back to empty.

But the deposit check has cleared in my bank account so I order Chinese—sweet and sour chicken and rice—enough for dinner and a couple of lunches. I eat alone at the dining room table, wishing I had access to cable TV—some kind of internet or television programming other than what’s available on my phone.

This is a good thing, I finally decide. No internet, no procrastination. I’m only home because there’s work to do, anyway, so I grab the box of trash bags from under the kitchen sink, some boxes I picked up from the home improvement store, a couple of rolls of tape and a thick, black marker and head upstairs to the bedrooms.

Two doors in particular have remained shut.

Sean’s, since he died.

And Mom and Dad’s, since he died.

This was mostly intentional. Sean’s death was so sudden and unexpected my parents weren’t up to sorting through and cleaning out his things, so the door remained closed. It was easier that way—for all of us. At some point we were going to take care of it, but it’s not like it was going anywhere. There was no rush. And we needed time, I think. Then, when Mom left my dad, he wasn’t up to the task of cleaning out Sean or Mom’s stuff, so he ignored it. Two losses in one year? Our family torn straight down the middle? Just getting up in the morning and going about our day was hard enough. When he died two years ago I was busy with school. It’s not that I was trying to avoid the task, but now years have passed and I have no choice but to open the doors to these rooms and sift through the remnants of what used to be my family.

Inside, my parents’ room is dark, the curtains drawn, the air stale. Layers of dust film the surface of the nightstands and the lamps and the dresser. I pull back the curtains and lift the blinds, letting sunlight in. Dust motes flicker listlessly around me.

The rest of the afternoon is spent dividing the contents of the closet and dresser into boxes. Clothes that are older or tired-looking go into the trash, but some of the work clothes are still wearable, so I fold these and put them into boxes marked “donation.” I sort through shoes the same way. Contents of the underwear and sock drawers go straight to the trash. All of dad’s “cutting the lawn” shirts are tossed.

I look for something I might want to keep—something attached to a memory or that I can’t bear to part with—but I don’t. And what surprises me most is how little my mom took with her when she left. A suitcase, is all.

I was home from school that weekend. We’d just made it past the one year anniversary of Sean’s death, and I remember sitting at the dining room table, eating cereal and texting Buzz when I heard the wheels clacking against every wooden step on her way downstairs. I remember my dad meeting her in the foyer and the two of them standing just out of sight, speaking in tones so hushed it was impossible to overhear what, exactly, was happening.

But then: “You’ll call me when you get there, right?” my dad asked.

“Of course,” she replied.

Even that was a lie.

She never called. She just walked out, leaving us to believe she was taking some time off. Just a week. Maybe two. She needed a break. To rest. To reset.

Because when Sean died, he left this huge, gaping hole. The empty was everywhere. His bedroom. The chair he sat in at the table. And even though Mom threw herself into the final months of my senior year and graduation and getting me to college, you could see the light in her eyes was just . . . gone—that she was going through the motions of work and making dinner and cleaning the house. Sometimes it was like she never stopped finding things to clean and fix. Like if she stopped, even for a moment, the entire house would come tumbling down around her.

When she walked out she left everything behind, her message received loud and clear: this life wasn’t enough for her. My dad wasn’t enough for her. Her work. The house.

I wasn’t enough for her.

Around three weeks after she left my dad started investigating. We didn’t know where she’d gone or who she was with, but a couple of phone calls told us all we needed to know. She’d apparently given her notice at work—had the decency to let her boss know she wouldn’t be returning, but not her husband or son. She’d sold her car. In my daydreams, I imagine she stopped at a store and bought all new clothes. Colored her hair. Started going by a completely different name. Found a completely new life. And if anyone asked about her family she’d say: “No. It’s just me.”

I finger through the contents of her jewelry box, but nothing is worth keeping—everything plastic or tarnished. Mass produced. So I throw the whole goddamn thing out.

When I am finished, it’s nearly dark and seven medium-sized donation boxes and six garbage bags are packed tight. I carry them downstairs, one by one. The next thirty minutes are spent wiping away dust and vacuuming the floor until all that’s left is the rug and furniture. A single afternoon and all traces of anyone ever occupying the room are gone.

I pretend I am proud of all that I’ve accomplished, and reward myself by running out and picking up a case of beer.