FIVE

JESSE

The first words I hear on Monday are Claire—her arms full—wishing me a “good morning” as she hands me the tall flat white coffee she’d picked up on her way to the house. It was “meet with the decorator” day, and another morning spent with Mia Porter and her mother. In preparation, she’d nearly finished her own frappucino.

“So I stopped at the paint store and picked up some samples,” she says, dumping her coffee, purse, keys, phone, and notebook on the table in the foyer and carrying the paper bag hanging on her arm into the formal living room. “Big Chill, Gray Screen, Site Wite, Silverpointe, and Monorail.” She removes five small plastic tubs of paint, lining them each on the fireplace mantel. “Do you have a pencil on you?”

I don’t, so I head into the kitchen to the desk where Mom kept her cookbooks and calendars and notecards and other office supplies and find a dull pencil in the middle drawer beside some rubber bands, paper clips, Post-it notes, and a stapler remover. When I return, Claire has the first sample open and is painting a large gray square onto the wall. “This is Gray Screen,” she says. “Will you write that on the wall beneath it? Because I’d hate for these to dry and we forget which color is which.”

“Smart,” I say, scribbling the word as she moves to the next sample.

“That’s why they pay me the big bucks,” she says, smiling.

The next few minutes are filled as Claire takes a new brush to each sample and paints five gray squares in succession just above the molding on the walls. “I went with lighter grays because the trim is so dark,” she says, taking a few steps back to examine her handiwork. “I think the balance will be nice. The wood is thick and rich, but the accent should lighten the room. Make it look even bigger.”

I nod and pretend I can picture the final product—the one she’s imagining—but it’s hard to see past the burgundy my grandmother painted it more than twenty years ago.

When Claire texted me for my coffee order I was still in bed, groggy from the evening before because I had trouble falling asleep. For the first time in what felt like years, I lay wide awake in bed—body tired but my mind racing—not thinking about Sean or my mom or my dad, but Claire and the evening we spent together. It was the good kind of “up all night,” where my brain wouldn’t stop replaying the conversations we shared. Every time our eyes met. Every time she smiled. And this morning, as I replied to her message and ran for the shower, waking my body up as fast as I could, I tried to count all the hours I’d spent not sleeping because of this girl. She is everything I remember and more—my headspace trapped in an all too familiar place: an endless loop of Claire Tyndall.

“They need to dry,” she says as I take the first warm sip of coffee, “but I’m thinking Monorail is going to be too dark.”

“I’m kind of digging Site Wite,” I say.

“You don’t think it’s too light?”

“They dry darker.”

“That’s true. So I forgot to ask,” she begins, tossing the sample tubs and spent brushes back into the paper bag, “how is the packing going?”

“Good. I mean, I’ve only tackled my mom and dad’s stuff, so far. Sorting wasn’t too hard. About half ended up in the trash and half I donated.”

“Was it . . . bad?” she asks. And I know what she means. Was it difficult being among their things knowing they would never come back to claim them? Was it harder to toss some items more than others?

“Not as bad as I thought it would be,” I confess. “At first, yeah, but . . . I don’t know. It was their stuff, not them.” My shoulders lift in a shrug, because, yes, it sucks having to get rid of everything—the reasons for it—but it’s not like keeping it was going to put my family back together.

“I’m really sorry,” she says. “I know I should have said it sooner. I should’ve just . . . let everything else go and reached out to you, and . . . I’m sorry. I want you to know that.”

“It’s not your fault. And yeah, the situation wasn’t ideal, but Dad made it easy for me. Everything was planned. The divorce finalized. Everything was in my name and willed directly to me. He’d worked out the funeral plans and expenses and the house, so it wasn’t the logistical nightmare it could have been. It just . . . I don’t know. Sometimes I think it was a little too well-planned.” I laugh, even as a prickle of anger courses through my body, warming my skin. “God, that sounds crazy.”

“You mean you think he gave up too soon,” Claire says, voice quiet.

“Yeah. Sometimes, I do.”

Her lips remain pulled into a frown and she fidgets with her fingernail, seeming nervous. “And you never heard from your mom?”

“Not a word,” I reply. “Some days I feel like she’s out there. Living life. Happy. On other days I feel empty. Like something’s happened and she’s gone, too. But that’s the long story to your short question. Yes, packing is going okay.”

She stares at me a moment, quiet, then finally: “You know, if you ever want to . . . I don’t know. I was thinking if you needed help with . . . all of this,” she continues, sweeping her hand to encompass the room, “any of it . . . I don’t mind dropping in and helping you sort or pack.”

It’s not my imagination that she seems grateful to hear the knock on the front door, that this conversation has ended.

“Be careful what you put out there. I might take you up on that offer,” I warn.

“Do it,” Claire replies as we head into the foyer. “I’m serious. Let me know the day and time. I’ll work it out.” I unlock the door and let Mia and Mrs. Porter inside, the latter moving her sunglasses from her head to her purse.

“Are we the first ones here?” she asks, returning her purse to her shoulder.

Claire peers out one of the front windows. “It looks like Lynette is pulling in right now, and Deb should be here any minute. Can I get you anything? I have waters, or I can run out and pick you up some coffee.”

“No, thank you. We’re coming from breakfast at the club,” Mrs. Porter says as she moves into the formal living room. “The room is much larger than I remember, Mia. When I left I worried it might be too small. Are these the paint colors?”

“They are. I just put them on the wall, so we’re waiting for them to dry,” Claire says.

“Not the one on the far right,” she says dismissively. “It’s too dark. You can see how those darker colors will swallow a whole room.”

Lynette lets herself inside, joining us. “Hello, everyone! Jesse, the house is looking amazing. I love how big the exterior seems now with those trees gone. And the pressure washing . . . ,” she clicks her tongue and gives me the “okay” sign with her fingers. “Fabulous. Everything just sparkles. Are these our colors?” she asks, moving into the living room.

“They’re drying,” Claire explains.

But this doesn’t seem to matter. “Not the last one,” Lynette says. “It’s too dark. And the second one has too much brown in it.”

“Looks like Monorail is out,” Claire says, voice low enough so that only I can hear.

“What if I like Monorail?” I tease.

Her mouth hints at a smile. “Then you should ask yourself, ‘is this a battle worth fighting’?”

Mia, her mother, and Lynette are already discussing potential ideas when Deb arrives. They tour the rooms together, and for every “I love that” from Mia I hear an “absolutely not” or “I think it would be better if” from her mother, with Claire taking notes as rapidly as possible. Eventually, they move to the dining room table and Deb pulls out several catalogs from her suppliers. Because of the short notice, Mia is tasked with picking her top two choices. If she can’t secure lavender bows for the chairs, for instance, would violet be okay?

Every so often Lynette has to remind them that, even if their budget is flexible, their timeline isn’t. If they’re going to make this reception happen, everyone will have to adapt. I’m privy to the entire conversation because Lynette has asked me to stay close by in the event they have any questions about the space—what’s acceptable and what’s a deal breaker. So far, everything sounds doable. They’re picturing five to six circular tables per room as well as the front porch. “A guest station with an attendant should greet the guests in the foyer, and we can collect gifts there, as well,” Lynette says.

“At one-fifty, that’s fifteen of the large tables,” Claire reminds her. “Should we check with the fire marshal about capacity?”

“Not if they’re going to tell us it won’t hold our number of guests,” Mrs. Porter says.

“Check the city website to see what guidelines are,” Lynette tells Claire.

“I don’t see why it would be a problem. It’s only a one-time event,” Mrs. Porter says. “It’s no different than gathering in someone’s yard for a birthday party. Or the wake for a funeral. It’s not like he’s running a business or anything.”

“He should be,” Mia says, texting someone on her phone. She’s spent the majority of the meeting taking photos and sending them to her fiancé and maid of honor for second and third opinions. “I know half a dozen girls or more who would love to have their weddings here. And Celeste’s sweet sixteen? It would be perfect.”

“Rachel’s baby shower,” her mother adds.

I can’t help but smirk, as I finish the last of my coffee, at how they speak about me like I’m not even present.

Mia groans. “Why doesn’t Nicole ever text me back? I mean, I get that you’re working, but this is important, too.”

“I told you Elena would have been the better choice for maid of honor,” her mother reminds her. “She doesn’t have anything going on what with this gap year she’s taking before starting her career.”

“No. I’ve known Nicole the longest. We’ve been planning this forever,” she replies, not wanting to admit her mother may have been right. “She’s great. . . . She just isn’t answering my texts,” she mumbles.

I’m scrolling through the day’s headlines on my phone, half-ignoring a conversation about silver candelabras and “do we want five stems or eight stems?” when a phone rings. At first, I think it’s Mia’s maid of honor quitting because she can’t take the endless barrage of text messages or afford the therapy bill associated with the planning of this event, but it’s Claire’s. She stands, apologizes, mutters something about “the school calling,” and hurries to the foyer. I just do hear the “hello?” before she walks out the front door.

“Sorry about that,” Lynette apologizes to Mia and her mother. “We don’t typically take calls during client meetings, but her son is in a preschool program this year,” she explains. “That was probably important.”

And at that moment it’s like someone has yanked the floor out from under me, leaving me hanging, suspended, nothing to hold on to—my gut punched empty, heart pounding wildly between my ears.

“I didn’t realize she had a child.” Mrs. Porter speaks my thoughts out loud. “She seems so young.”

“She is, and it’s a tragic story,” Lynette says, keeping her voice hushed. “Apparently the father died in a car accident not long after she found out she was expecting.”

At this, I am on my feet, the dining room chair clattering across the floor.

“Jesse?” Lynette calls after me, seeming alarmed. “Are you all right?”

But I can’t. I can’t stop to answer. Can’t pause to think. I can only push my way out the front door and cross the lawn to where Claire is standing by her SUV, talking on her phone. I wait, but it can’t be my imagination that her face loses some of its color the moment she turns to find me standing there. And I don’t know what she sees that could have frightened her because I don’t know how I look on the outside—I only know how I feel on the inside, like I could annihilate her car window with a single strike of my clenched fist.

How?

How did this happen?

She continues to speak to the person on the other end of the conversation but keeps her eyes trained on mine. “No, it’s okay. I understand. I’ll have it in tomorrow, I promise.” A pause. “No problem. Thank you.”

She disconnects the call and exhales a hasty breath. “I forgot to sign his permission slip,” she explains. “For the science museum. Even though I’m supposed to chaperone—”

“What the fuck, Claire?” I interrupt.

Her eyes grow wider as she takes a step back, putting some physical distance between us, like she isn’t sure about me at that moment. And I know this because she has never seen me like this. Ever. I’m the calm one. The flexible one. The easygoing one. I know this because, in this moment, I don’t even recognize myself. “You have a kid?” And I don’t know if I mean this as a statement or a question. It’s clearly a known fact—known to everyone but me—why don’t I believe her? She bites her lower lip, eyes searching mine. “How the hell . . . I mean, Christ! How could you not tell me?”

Her eyes grow red, watering around the edges. “I—I thought you knew,” she stammers.

“No! Fuck! No, I didn’t know! I didn’t know a thing about any of this even though we’ve been on the phone and texting and you’re at my house!” I exhale, struggling to lower my voice, to keep whatever composure I can hang on to. “Not once did you ever mention. . . . It’s like you were keeping it a secret and all of a sudden you get this phone call and you’re out of there, and Lynette is explaining it’s your son’s preschool and. . . .” I trail off, trying to clear my head, to keep my heart from beating out of my chest. “He’s Sean’s?”

She nods.

“You’re sure?”

She frowns. “Jesse.”

“I’m sorry. I just . . . how could you not tell me?”

“I swear, I thought your parents told you—that you knew!”

“My parents knew?” A fresh wave of anger rolls over me. How many more times could they do this to me? They aren’t even around anymore and they’re still screwing up my life.

“Yes! We invited them over for dinner one night. Showed them the ultrasound photos. Needless to say, it didn’t end well!”

“What do you mean?”

She folds her arms across her chest, as if, even now—years later—she’s trying to protect herself. “I mean, your mom refused to believe me—that he was Sean’s. Things were said that I’m not even going to repeat but the gist of it was that your mom and dad didn’t want anything to do with us. Not me. Not the baby. They didn’t want information. They didn’t want updates. They just wanted us to not exist. So they pretended we didn’t. And it’s not that I wanted money or anything. I just wanted them to know, so they could be part of our lives because they were family. I thought they might change their minds once he was born. I figured I’d give them time to get used to the idea. Then your mom left, so it was like . . . I don’t know. What’s the point?”

I run fingers through my hair, pulling at the roots, my face growing hotter and hotter from rage to grief to shame and back again. “The point is my brother fathered a kid and no one had the decency to fucking tell me!”

Claire steps closer, and I can see the regret written into her eyes, the shock of knowing this was a serious miscommunication etching itself into her features. “I’m so sorry, Jesse. I really thought you knew. I thought your parents would have said something. I figured if you wanted to reach out you would have. That’s why it was so awkward the other day, running into you. I honestly wasn’t sure if you wanted to see or speak to me ever again.”

“Of course I wanted to see you! I’ve missed you for the last four fucking years! You just . . . disappeared! You completely walked out of my life!”

“I didn’t think you wanted to see us, then,” she clarifies. “Because I knew how you felt about Sean and me. I knew you thought I deserved more, and I accepted that. I assumed you weren’t interested so I planned to keep things professional. And all of a sudden we were going to be working together to make this reception happen and I didn’t want to cause any more problems between us, so I just . . . I didn’t bring him up. If I would have known that your parents didn’t tell you—that you had no idea—I would have come straight to you, I swear.”

I rub my eyes, wipe away the sweat beading at my hairline, and exhale an agitated sigh, trying to expel the demons wreaking havoc in my brain.

“I’m sorry,” she finally says. “I’m so sorry.”

I don’t know what to say to this, so I don’t say anything. She checks the time on her phone and glances back at the house. “Look, I have to get back to that meeting. Will you please go to lunch with me when we’re done?” she asks. “We can talk, and I can explain . . . everything.”

And again, I don’t answer. I’m afraid of what might come out of my mouth if I open it. And I don’t know if she accepts the silence as a “yes” or considers it a “no,” but she heads back to the house anyway, opens the front door, and slips back inside, disappearing from view.