Page 79 of Yes No Maybe

“The shirts. They make me think of Dad’s lawn care t-shirts. He’s forever going through them; they’re always dirty no matter how much we wash them.”

“Wonder what you could make out of them.”

She grins. “Me, too.”

We tour the remaining rooms together, discussing each piece like amateur critics. Sara’s knowledge of mediums and techniques is impressive for an adult, let alone a fifteen-year-old. I plan to take advantage of my guardian status and discuss extra opportunities for her with my colleagues in the art department.

With the inside rooms exhausted, we rejoin the others. They sit at a long table in the museum’s café, enjoying tea, cold drinks, and bistro-style sandwiches.

“Rowan, let’s go see the pieces outside.” Sara waves me along.

Jack Graham professes his hope for us,andSara’s made me her new best friend? It’s a banner day for Rowan Mackey. Maybe I should buy lottery tickets.

We take a side door to the lavish outside, where art mixes with a garden and wooded pathway.

“Thanks for bringing me here.” Her hazel eyes narrow as she side-glances me. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you and Jack are talking.”

“Um, yeah, me, too.”I think.

When the first sculpture outside inspires her, Sara plops onto the grass to capture it in her sketchbook. I take a bench nearby, watching her with a strange joy. Sara’s sprawled out, sitting on one leg while the other is extended on the grass, indifferent to her white dress or anyone seeing her like this. She bites her bottom lip in her lovely concentration. Holding the charcoal and softening her strokes with her finger makes black smudges on her hands and fingers, even a small gray mark on her cheek when she scratches it. I take secret pictures, sure her father will want to see them and to add to my family album after she’s gone.

In the contemplative silence, I ask myself a long-forgotten question—what do I want?

Someone I can trust with anything—my stories, my past, my heart. When Dean asked for my future, it’s no wonder I flubbed the answer—I hadn’t trusted him with the rest yet. I can’t even trust him to return my calls, so I’m not sure I want to now, either.

But I do with Jack.

Twenty-Six

Jack

Ifeelbetter.Rephrase—I’mfucking ecstatic. I don’t cuss once on our drive to Airlie Gardens, even driving behind a shithead doing forty in the passing lane. Things are complicated—I get it—but confessing my feelings opens her up to the possibility and brings us closer. And she didn’t refuse me, not entirely.

Besides, we’re here. Together. Admiring the gorgeous oaks draped in Spanish moss, the delicate gardens that remind me of manicured estates from old books, and the water views, where boat and bird spotting becomes a peaceful game to play.

Ahead, the group halts when the paved path ends, debating where to go. Unable to agree, they split up. Tom and Marcy take a right toward the pier to spot oyster beds and herons. Vernon, Rose, and Sara opt for the butterfly house and glass mosaic garden across the vast lawn on the left.

Rowan trails behind Sara. I fall in beside her. In a silent partnership, we cross the crisply mowed lawn with its thick-bellied grand oak in the center. We maze around picnics and families. Rose, Vernon, and Sara disappear into the butterfly house, but she detours to a shaded bench. I ease into the space beside her. We say nothing, like we’re simply the chaperone and driver awaiting our passengers.

Finally, her big blue eyes catch mine. “Parts of my mac-n-cheese story are true. I used to tell myself I was protecting my students from something horrible, but they can handle anything. I’m the one who can’t handle everyone knowing. But I think you should.”

“Only if you’re ready.” Her uneasy smile indicates that she isn’t ready, simply willing. Perhaps baring my heart has lessened her tight defenses. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.” She straightens her shoulders with a deep breath. “I was fifteen, just home from school, and hungry. Boxed mac-n-cheese was a typical go-to when I was alone. I started the water in a pot that was too small because I was too lazy to wash the one I should’ve used.”

“Your mom was at work?” Throwing in a benign question is a journalist’s trick to relax someone into talking, and I want to help her through it.

A weak smile flashes over her face. “Yes. She usually didn’t get home until six or so. But that day, she was coming home early.”

“Why?”

“I won an essay contest,” she reports sheepishly. “A thousand words on preserving the sanctity and beauty of our parks for environmental science. Mom insisted on celebrating. She planned to take off work early for mani-pedis, dinner out, andBaskin-Robbinsfor dessert.”

She stops, head lowered like she’s peering over a cliff’s edge and bracing herself for the fall.

“What happened?” I urge, my voice gentle.

“Mom had been dating a fellow officer. She rarely dated. I used to tease her that she was an army nun, but I understood, too. She was exceptionally cautious. I mean, as careful as she could be… Ineverthought it was her fault.”

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