Page 68 of No Room in the Inn

Guilt pierces me yet again, and I find myself wishing I could just hold her. She’d never let me, of course. Not now.

“By the way,” she adds. “I’m staying with my parents now. So you can come back if you want; you won’t have to see me.”

And with that, she hangs up.

I look at my phone for a second before sighing and setting it down on the bed next to me. I want to ask her about why she’s staying with her parents; are they making amends? I hope so, for her sake. My mind runs through the conversation we had about her parents, and the things she said to me when we were out by the nativity. Her words still ring clearly in my head:Are you greater than Him?

I’m not. I am lower than dust, and He is my Savior. And as I think about that, I realize that it’s been days since I’ve felt guilt over Granny or the inn. I frown, poking and prodding at my feelings.

When I think about Granny, I feel only peace. No crippling guilt or self-loathing; just peace.

I smile, knowing that everything will be okay. I don’t know how, and I don’t know what that will look like, but my God is a God of miracles. And right now, I need a miracle—starting with Gerty Nixon.

Chapter 31

Willow

Ihate crying, but I’ve been doing a lot of it recently. It’s all these stupid feelings. I wish I could just turn them off.

But I can’t. Myrtle is gone, Granny is gone, and Nixon is gone. And it hurts. It hurts a lot. Like a yawning, gaping black hole inside of me, sucking every other emotion in until all that’s left is a dull pain.

We bury Myrtle out in the backyard by the tree she often got stuck in when she was younger and more nimble. The ground is frozen and hard after we clear away the snow, but the three of us dig in with spades anyway, working until there’s a place big enough for her body. I can see the patch of earth from my bedroom window, just visible in the early morning light, but I know that as soon as it snows again—probably tonight—it will disappear.

I wish the pain would disappear, too, but it doesn’t.

I understand the sadness about Myrtle, and I understand the sadness about Granny. What I don’t understand is the sadness about Nixon. When did I grow to care for him enough that he was able to hurt me like this? I thought he annoyed me. I thought I found him obnoxious.

And I did, sometimes. But…he also held me when I cried. He comforted me. He mourned with me. He understood me and made me laugh. He was—heis—a good man.

A good man who inexplicably left without warning.

His call a few days ago was sort of a shock. Even though caller ID said it was him, I half expected it to be someone else when I answered. And even though I’d tried to get a hold of him multiple times, when he finally reached out, I found I didn’t have the energy to talk to him.

I didn’t ask him how he knew Myrtle had passed. My guess is that Sarah told him. I wouldn’t be surprised if she gave him some sort of tongue lashing, but I don’t really want to know.

I sigh and stand up, finally getting off my bed. I’ve been sitting there staring out the window for a while now, and I’m suddenly overcome with the need to be productive. So I take a long, hot shower, only getting out when the water starts to run cold. I’d be lying if I said I’m not sort of avoiding my parents. Only sort of—but it’s just a little awkward still, and I’m not in a great head space right now anyway. I’m not used to living with them, and they’re not used to living with me.

It’s also a little hard not to feel like I’ve taken a significant step back in life, even though I’m notlivingwith my parents so much as staying with them for a bit. I should probably start sending my résumé out so it will be on file near the top when companies begin hiring in January, but just thinking about that sends a little wave of disappointment over me.

Because for the first time in my life, I feel lost. I don’t know what I want to do with my future. I had a plan lined up in St. Louis, but that’s completely shattered now. I don’t regret things ending with Chauncey—my pride stings, but ultimately I’m better off, and not just because he used my hair spray—but I don’t like how up in the air everything is.

Maybe I should find some sort of sad song to listen to while staring blankly out the window. That’s what people do in movies when they feel lost.

I sigh, dragging myself downstairs. I’m not quite ready to face my parents yet, so instead I pull on my boots and coat to get the mail. It’s entirely unnecessary, since the mail hasn’t come yet today, but maybe they forgot to bring it in yesterday.

The winter wind is frigid and unforgiving, and despite my coat and boots, by the time I reach the mailbox I’m shivering. The metal latch is cold, and it’s stuck; I end up giving it a few good thumps before it falls open on its own. Bending down, I peer into the mailbox.

Ah-ha! Two things. This walk was not in vain. I reach in and pull out what looks like a bank statement and…

I frown at the second piece of mail. What is this, an invitation? For a wedding, maybe? The envelope is fancy, and whatever’s inside feels like heavy-weight cardstock. The stamp, I notice, is Christmas themed, so maybe it’s just a Christmas card.

I remember the days when getting an invitation was the most exciting thing in the world, because it meant you got to go to a birthday party or something. I mean, granted, I wasn’t the most popular girl in school, but I still had friends. I got invited to some birthday parties, especially when I was a kid.

I don’t recognize the handwriting on the front of the envelope, but when I open the envelope and pull out what’s inside, my pulse gives a traitorous little leap.

Because I do know who wrote the note that’s stuck to the top of what looks like an invitation, even though it’s only a few words. Goodness knows I’ve looked over the other note he wrote me enough. Nixon’s handwriting is distinctive; he writes in all capital letters, and they slant significantly to the right.

My first instinct is to throw this whole thing away. My second instinct is to sleep with it under my pillow. I finally go with the more neutral response of simply reading it.

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