Page 31 of The Art of Dying

“I haven’t seen you since the service,” Marilyn said.

“I’ve been pretty busy.”

“And you’re a Marine, now. Your mother surely has choice words from behind the Pearly Gates,” she said with a warm smile.

“Uh, yes, ma’am. My next station is at Camp Pendleton, California, and they gave me thirty days to make the move. I don’t have much, so I spent most of it here, fixing up Mom and Dad’s house,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Kitsch spoke to her in a different tone, softer, but in a different way than he spoke to me, and I wondered how he knew her.

“I heard,” Marilyn said. “When do you leave again?”

Kitsch seemed embarrassed. “Uh, tomorrow.”

“That’s too bad. I’m sorry I didn’t call to schedule a lunch.”

“That’s okay. I’ll be back,” he said, offering me a small smile. “Mack will be keeping up the house for me while I’m gone. She has it looking better than ever. Ma would’ve been proud.”

Marilyn nodded, hiding sadness with her smile. “Terrell in love with a girl named Mack. I can’t say I’m surprised. Well,” she said, looking up at him. “She’s lovely. I’m so happy for you.”

Kitsch beamed. “Thank you. She’s pretty amazing.”

“Mother,” a woman said from behind her. “Our table is ready. Oh! Hi, T.K.,” she said, seeming surprised.

“Brooke,” Kitsch said.

Brooke’s dark hair fell in soft, shiny waves to her shoulders, her eyes green like mine, but she was my total opposite, demure and elegant. Even the way she moved put her on a different level from everyone else in Quincy. I’d never seen her at the Tavern or Ody’s—not that a woman who looked and dressed like her would frequent places like those.

She nodded to both of us. “I heard you were dating the new girl in town. Everyone’s talking about how happy you’ve been.”

“They’re right,” he said, touching the small of my back.

Marilyn gestured to me. “Mack, this is my youngest daughter, Brooke. She and Terrell grew up together.” She leaned in, pretending to whisper, “They both had older, tired mothers you see, so they got into a lot of trouble.”

I laughed once, but Kitsch and Brooke both looked painfully embarrassed.

Marilyn continued, “Grace was my dearest friend. We grew up together, too. My late husband and I lived just down the street from where you live now. Brooke put a lot of miles on her bike riding back and forth. Well, Terrell, too.”

“Mom, we should go,” Brooke said. “It’s good to see you, T.”

Kitsch nodded and then gestured for me to sit. Once I settled in, he started to stay something, then stopped himself.

“Don’t do that. Say what you need to say.”

He shifted. “It’s my last night with you. I don’t want to spend it talking about the past.”

“So… she’s your ex.”

He hesitated, then sighed. “Yes.”

“Why does she call you T.K.? I mean, obviously it’s your initials, but no one else does.”

“Yeah, she couldn’t say Terrell when she was little, and Kitsch was just as hard, so T.K. it was. It just stuck with her, I guess.”

I nodded. “She’s beautiful.”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“She seems nice.”

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