Page 93 of Our Hearts Knew Better

I can’t go in there. I can’t see him.

“Wait, wait.”

Grass shuffles behind me, and I face him again at the desperation in his voice and for my own to stand strong.

He stops once I do. “You don’t have to come in. But…” He holds up a finger, then shuffles back inside the house, coming back out just a second later carrying a closed box.

My eyes trace the strip of thick tape holding down the flaps as he hands it to me, my arms automatically cradling the weight like it’s something prized before I find out it is.

“This is…your mom’s things.”

“Her things,” I repeat, a stumble and a breath. “All of it?”

“A lot of it,” he corrects the rise of hope and disbelief in my voice. “A lot that I kept from us,” he continues, the admittance lower, reminding me part of that thievery was from his grief, but it was still never an excuse. “But it’s yours. It should be yours. And I shouldn’t have done that.”

My vision blurs the box, and I chew the shake in my lip before managing a, “Thanks.”

My father makes a noise between a hum and a throat clearing, hisyou’re welcome.

“That, uh, Levi,” he says now, snapping the blur back up to him. “He’s a good man.”

I make a noise that sounds like a snort, even as my chest warms. “You know how he broke my heart when we were seventeen…”

“Mhm.”

“And you still think he’s a good man after breaking your daughter’s heart.” It’s more statement than question, my headshaking at him and my feet pulling me backward again. Though I also hear something teasing in my tone.

“Mhm,” he repeats, then tilts me a look resembling teasing, too, one I probably would’ve smiled at if I were still that age. “I said good man, not good boy.”

That snort sound leaves me again, and I think I’m trying and failing to laugh. “Yeah, that good man seems to think near death changed you.”

“It did with you,” he says, strong against my challenge, and my lingering disbelief shifts from the box to him, one of my shoulders now turned toward the street.

“It shouldn’t have had to take that.”

“It shouldn’t have, but it did. Not completely,” he rushes out with an about-face before his voice goes low again. “I’ve…I’ve been thinking about you a lot over the years.”

My world tilts at those words that have to be a lie. “You never reached out to me. And don’t tell me it’s because I deserved better,” I rush out now, a firmer grip on the box. “Youbebetter.”

“I’m trying,” he tells me, with a promise, and a look at the box, holding what’s left of someone we both love and share and should’ve shared even harder and more often once she was gone. “Late. But you know what they say.” He tries for another smile and another noise escapes me to cut him off.

“I’ve shutthemup.”

My father mouthsohlike I’ve passed him a secret and the corners of my lips do a small jerk of their habitual lift to keep whatever kind of peace this is and to bask in the shine of my dad’s smile.

It’s enough to make my next breath a gasp as I back up again, my wedges kicking at gravel as I hurry off.

My father raises his hand like he’s trying to both stop me and wave goodbye. But he stays where he is and I don’t stop.

It isn’t until I’m walking the street that my well of tears cools my face, and I laugh a sob. My heart is tight, trembly beats as I hug just as tightly and trembly to the box.

My mom.

Different Realities

Summer

“Eat.” Isolde nudges a plate of meatloaf into my hand on the mini bar with a motherly look that gives my eyes a fresh sting.

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