Page 54 of Return To You

No books strewn haphazardly. No stack of mail. No glass in the sink. No cereal bowl left to dry. No shoes in the entrance. No wilted flowers. Not even a trace of chip crumbs on the sofa or on the floor.

What happened to you, Grace?

Colton’s words to me echo. "Maybe it’s best you stay away from her while you’re here.’"

Be best for me, too, to stay away from her.

I just need to get the job done and get out of here.

Kicking my shoes off, I trudge to the bedroom and pause at the entrance. This is where she sleeps. Under a bedspread that has a girly color—taupe? mauve? I never knew what these were. But suddenly it feels important.

My phone dings with a text. It’s Lucas, checking if I found the place.

I shoot him a quick answer, shake my weird thoughts away, and wiggle the stuck closet door. After some careful give and take, it opens wide enough for me to step into the large walk-in closet and take a look at it from the inside.

Grace’s scent assails me, creating a weird feeling that takes a hold of me somewhere deep in my gut, and I have to fight the urge to bury my face in her clothes.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Under the watchful gaze of the cat, who’s now on the bed, I unhinge the door. It’ll need some sanding first. I carry the door outside, careful not to let the cat out, and using the basic tools I find in Lucas’s truck, I sand it where it’s been scraping against the frame. Once I’m back inside, I’ll adjust the hinges to keep it from tilting.

Walking back into the house, I force myself not to look at the photos on the mantle. I want to do this job and get out of here asap. Truth is, I’m enjoying the job itself. It keeps me busy, and out of my head, which is not a fun place to be right now.

As I reach the bedroom, I stop in my tracks. There’s a large box on the floor, the lid to the side with the cat sitting on it, watching me. Daring me, it seems.

“What the hell, fella? You wanna get me in trouble?”

“Meow.”

I set the door against the wall. “I don’t have time for this shit.” I crouch to pick up the mess so I can do my job without stepping on it.

Is this garbage? There’s a disposable coffee cup sticking out of the box. Why would Grace—or anyone—keep a disposable coffee cup when she’s clearly a neat freak?

Resisting the urge to look through the box—could she be a closet hoarder? Is there such a thing as a closet hoarder?—I shove it back inside but my hand freezes. The cup has a name on it.

Grace.

In my handwriting.

What the fuck? Is that the cup I brought her on the first day of preseason camp? This time I take a good look at the contents of the box, my heart hammering in my chest.

A jersey takes up most of the space. I know this jersey. Still, I unfold it.

King.

How old is this thing?

Setting the jersey aside, I continue my exploration, blood roaring in my ears. There’s a stack of letters in colorful envelopes, tied together with a twine. Are these love letters? Not from me. I never wrote Grace.

What the heck, I’m checking.

It’s fucking Christmas cards… from Mom. In their envelopes. I open one, and it’s folded to the paragraph where she gives news about me. I open another, and another, and it’s the same. Each year, Mom sends a Christmas letter with news from all of us. We joke that she obviously tries to give each child the same space on the page, and so if one of us had nothing particular going on that year, it had a lot of filler.

Grace has each one unfolded and refolded so that when you open it, the first thing you see is the paragraph about me. With unsteady fingers, I stack the letters back together and don’t bother reattaching the twine. I’m not letting this go.

She and I are going to have a little conversation. She’ll know I went through that box.

Oh yeah, she’ll know.

---