Page 142 of The Boyfriend Goal

We’re going to her brother’s house earlier in the day, but dinner should work, so I say, “Yes, and I’m bringing my girlfriend. Tell Frieda she’s the woman in the T-shirt, and she’d better be nicer to her than she was the night she met her.”

I say goodbye and finish cleaning, feeling a whole lot lighter.

Christian chews approvingly on a peanut butter blossom. “These are even better than those cinnamon things you guys made the other month,” he says, relaxing on his couch, the wreckage of Christmas morning gifts for two-and-half-month old twins scattered on the floor in front of the ten-foot-tall Douglas fir.

As the baby in his arms mouths on some pacifier shaped like a bear, Christian stuffs another cookie in his mouth. The fact that he eats sweets with no obvious guilt is another thing I admire about him.

I reach for one from the red-and-white-striped cookie tin and pop it in my mouth. Yup, it tastes like zero guilt.

When I finish it, I say, “You know what? You’re right. We can bake.”

“We’re exceptionally good at following recipes,” Josie says, from her spot next to me. Her parents are here too.

Christian nods toward his sister. “Are these Greta’s recipes? I remember this one Christmas when the two of you made seven-layer brownies, and they were the best.”

Josie beams. “Those were really good. Wes, we’ll have to make those next.”

“We will,” I say.

Christian leans back on the couch, shifts the baby to his other arm. The last time Christian brought up baking, he could barely remember his sister liked to putter around in the kitchen. Now, he’s remembering details and sharing them. It’s a welcome shift.

From across the couch, Josie’s mom meets my gaze. “Wesley, tell us more about you. What do you like to do for fun?”

Easiest question ever. I drape an arm around Josie, squeezing her shoulder. “Mostly I like to spend time with your daughter. That’s what makes me happiest.”

Josie’s mom tilts her head, knitting her brow like she’s trying to figure me out, then says, “I can’t think of a better answer.”

In the early afternoon, we make our way toward the door to head to Sonoma and see my dad. But before we go, Josie’s mom pulls her aside. “There’s something I have for you. A gift, if you will.”

“What is it?” Josie asks.

“Come with me.”

I watch as they head down the hall, wondering what this gift could be.

49

SALTY SWEET TEARS

Josie

This isn’t ominous at all. My mom hardly ever pulls me aside. But she has this mom look on her face, like she wants to tell me something Very Important.

Tension winds through me as she leads me into the guest room where she’s been staying, then shuts the door. The sound of it clicking freaks me out. Yes, she said she had a gift, but I can’t escape this queasy feeling. “What is it, Mom? Are you sick? Is something going on?” All I can think is that she’s next. I’ve lost someone I love already, and I don’t want to go through that again.

She frowns sympathetically. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m not sick. I’m great, and I have something for you. It’s from…” She draws a breath—a fortifying one it seems. “My sister.”

My pulse stops. I can barely breathe. “W-what do you mean?” I stammer out.

“When my sister wrote you the list, she gave something to me too. Before…” my mom says in careful bites, like this is hard for her. “That’s why I kept asking you from time to time if you had started the list. Because she wanted you to have something when you finished it. I don’t know if you’ve finished it but I have a feeling that you have.” She pauses, like she can read list-finishing in my eyes. I’m not sure she can, or if she just figured two years was about right for me to make it through. “Am I right?”

I’ve finished nine items of the top ten. I still have number ten. But ten isn’t something you finish. Ten is an everyday kind of thing. So I feel like I’m being honest to Greta’s memory when I say, “Yes.”

Also I want what my mother has badly.

She spins around, heads to her suitcase, and takes a letter from the inside pouch. She carries it in both hands like it’s precious—something excavated from an archaeological dig that she must handle with great care. I stare at it. I can’t look anywhere but at a simple cream envelope and then the letters on the front. The most familiar handwriting ever spells my name.

I want to snatch it, but I take it carefully and hold it tight to my chest. “Thank you.”

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