Page 13 of Forget Me Not
“You have to be delicate with film this fragile. Make sure it doesn’t get damaged in the process.”
I stare at him, chewing impatiently on the side of my lip.
“It might need some color correction if the dyes have broken down,” he continues. “The pictures might be faded, or grainy, or—”
“Okay,” I say, cutting him off. Realizing that time isn’t really the issue; that unfortunately, right now, I have all the time in the world. “That’s fine. Just do what you can.”
“All right,” the man says, slipping the roll somewhere out ofsight. This place is a mess, no obvious attempts at organization, and I try to swallow the twist of discomfort in my chest as I watch the film disappear, the anxiety of trusting a stranger with what could very well be some of my sister’s final moments making my palms itch with fear. “Just leave your number and I’ll call when it’s ready.”
I nod, jotting down the digits before forcing myself to walk back to the car. Then I slide inside and crank the engine, eyeing the clock as it blinks back to life. It’s only 8:20, the entire day, the entiremonth,stretching out before me like a long walk to the gallows, and I know I’m not ready to go home yet. I’m not ready to spend the afternoon sitting in my bedroom, avoiding my mom. Still bitter about the things I just overheard, an entire lifetime of resentment building as the two of us dance around our problems in that way we’ve always done—except this time, without the benefit of eight hundred miles of distance between us. I need to keep busy, I need todosomething, and I glance over at the passenger seat, that box of old photos still propped up on the fabric.
Then I lean over and peer inside, the picture of Natalie and that grape resting on top.
CHAPTER 9
I’m bumping down a dirt lane thirty minutes later, pinpricks of light streaming through the trees giving the day an ethereal shine. After a few more miles of nothing but water on either side of the road, I reach a fork with a single wooden sign carved with the wordsGALLOWAY FARMpointing to the right.
I follow the sign, feeling the tires of my Corolla kicking up dust as I turn.
It wasn’t a deliberate decision, coming here. I can’t identify the exact moment I decided to punch the name into the GPS; the instant my hands gripped the wheel, taking all the proper turns. It was more of a knowing, a chest-deep awareness as soon as I glanced at that picture and took a long look at my sister’s expression. A desperate desire to keep that girl close uncurling in my stomach like the stretching tendrils of a wild vine.
I bounce down a few more miles of road now, the live oaks on either side forming a twisted bridge with their branches; streamers of Spanish moss like a decorative archway beckoning me in.It’s a gorgeous sight, just like I remember, although it feels a little unkempt now, a little neglected. Patches of overgrown grass peppered with weeds; algae floating across dollops of marshland, a boggy breadcrumb trail leading up to the creek itself. Just like how my house had looked smaller when I first pulled up, how certain places of the past seem to shrivel with time, the nostalgic glow of Galloway has been slightly snuffed out after my years away and I can’t help but wonder if it always looked like this, if my memory had simply buffed out the harsh edges, or if it has more recently descended into a state of disrepair.
I approach an ivy-clad fence with a house now visible in the distance. It’s giant and white, two stories overlooking the water and a wraparound porch with a row of gliders rocking gently for no one. There’s what looks like a small guesthouse to the left, essentially a miniature version of the main house beside it, and a shed off to the right made of old, chipped wood.
I creep up the drive, a produce garden tucked away to one side and the vineyard in view just behind it, perfect rows of muscadine grapes hanging loose and messy on the vines. There’s a line of trees on the edge of it all, a swath of forest that looks wild and untamed, and a single clothesline stretched across the lawn. Drying shirts swaying gently in the breeze.
I ease to a stop, realizing, with a sense of dumb awareness, that I have no idea if this place is even open. My mom said they’re still in business, but it’s private property… which I’m currently trespassing on. Someoneliveshere, clearly, and they must have heard my approaching car, seen the plume of disturbed dust in the distance, because just as I tap again on the gas, trying to find a spot to turn around, I watch as a man emerges through the door, jogging down the stairs to meet me out front.
I cuss under my breath, rolling down my window before plastering on a smile.
“Good morning,” I say, my hands still gripped to the wheel. “I’m so sorry to disturb you.”
“Morning,” he says, looking at me with a puzzled stare. He’s slightly older than me—late thirties, maybe; early forties at the latest—crow’s-feet by his temples and a head full of hair peppered with gray, though he’s tan, handsome. A solid jaw and robin’s-egg eyes the same blue as the brightening sky. “You don’t look like an Elijah.”
“Sorry?” I ask, not understanding.
“You here for the job posting? Elijah McCrae?”
“Oh, no,” I say. “I hate to disappoint, but that’s not me.”
“I wouldn’t call this a disappointment,” he says, smiling warmly. “What can I help you with?”
“I was just here to look around, but I didn’t realize how early it is. I doubt you’re even open yet.”
“We’re not actually open to the public anymore,” the man says, and I watch as he twists around, his palm rubbing his neck as his eyes land back on the house. “We stopped that a while back.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say again, cheeks flushing. Wondering how many times I can say the wordsorryin the span of one minute.
“It’s fine,” he says. “It was just a lot of unnecessary maintenance. The owners, Marcia and Mitchell. They’re getting a little too old for that.”
“I’ll just turn around then, get out of your hair—”
“What’s your name?” he asks, cutting me off. Head cocked to the side like he’s trying to place me, this uninvited visitor who just barged into his place of work.
I watch as he leans his forearms against my window and I glance down, taking in their chestnut brown with a spray of blond hair bleached from the sun. He’s wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt, tan work boots that look well past their prime.
“Claire,” I say at last.
