Page 24 of Tides That Bind

They’re a lie because Riley did do something wrong. Heleft.

I can’t explain that to Caroline and it’s not just because Riley is her brother. It’s because I don’t even knowwhyI’m upset by his absence when that’s really what I wanted all along. But the combination of Nate and Riley’s absences is so palpable it keeps me from wanting to be home where I feel impossibly alone.

My hands slide against my spandex shorts when I place them on my hips. “I don’t blame Riley. You can tell him that. I’m sure he’s staying with you and Finn.”

Caroline shakes her head sadly. “He’s not.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Where is he?”

“He’s fine. I mean, fine, like as fine as he can be. He’s just not staying with me.” She places her bag down, moving to plug in the vacuum.

“What are you doing?” I ask her.

“Helping, Harper. “

“I can clean.”

“You shouldn’t have to!” Caroline says exasperatedly. “You shouldn’t have to worry about more than yourself and Lucas. So I’m going to vacuum and then I’m going to”—she pauses, looking around—“do something else. And then I’m going to leave and pick up dinner and a bottle of wine and come over anddo something else at your house, like iron your sheets, or clean your baseboards.”

I let Caroline snatch the vacuum, watching as she bends, searching for the power button. When the vacuum roars to life, Tides scampers through the plastic curtain partition and into the main studio, but I stay put. The ridiculous sight of Caroline pushing the vacuum around in her heels and work dress makes me giggle and I let her continue just so I can have a laugh, even if it’s at her expense.

“Okay, stop.” I turn off the vacuum. “You missed all that anyway.”

Caroline looks at the tuft of Tides’s hair in the corner and sighs. “Riley won’t let me help. Can you let me? I’m horrible at cleaning and I’m an awful cook. But there must be something I can do.”

I press my lips together. “I’ve got a mountain of mail that I don’t want to open,” I whisper.

Caroline’s face lights up. “Paperwork is my love language.”

“Look. We did it.”

Caroline is being kind. The only dent I made tonight was in the wine bottle.

In the two hours since I tucked in Lucas and was force fed Mexican takeout by Caroline, the overwhelming pile of unopened mail has been opened, sorted, and categorized by color.

“These need to be notarized. Red for retirement, blue for health care, green for tuition benefits.” Caroline taps each stack. “Do you want to come to the office this week?”

I chew on the inside of my cheek. “It’s not too late for any of this, right?”

“There’s a grace period, but sooner than later, alright?”

“Okay. I’ll handle it tomorrow.” I mean what I say, even though the contents of the mail is just as intimidating as the envelopes that housed them.

Caroline sits back in her chair, her eyes drifting between me and the papers.

“Did you think about talking to someone?”

“You mean did I think about therapy?” I pour what little wine is left into my glass.

“You’re probably one of the most mentally sound people I’ve ever met, but what happened…it’s devastating.”

“That’s one way to put it.” I bring the glass to my lips. “But yes, I’ve looked into therapy. Did you know there are five stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance—but they don’t fall in any particular order?”

“Did a therapist tell you that?”

“No,” I answer. “Google. When I can’t sleep, I googlemy husband died, how long until I feel normal.”

“Harper—”

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