Page 17 of The Affair
“These are actually really good,” I said, not even remotely covering the note of surprise in my tone.
“Thanks,” he answered with a laugh. “Does that mean you’ll let me sign a lease?”
I gave the photos one last look before handing the phone back.
“I’m sorry, Sawyer,” I said. “But that’s just not what we do. We sell fine antiques—just antiques. That’s the way it’s always been. I hope you understand.”
I hated seeing the optimism in his eyes dissipate as he walked out the door, but I knew it was for the best.
Seeing him should have hurt. It should have reminded me of the pain his brother had caused.
But it didn’t.
And for that reason, he needed to stay away.
I was done with the Gallagher family—all of them.
* * *
If there wasone thing I was good at, it was keeping myself busy.
You were never truly alone if you had something to do, right? And I had a lot to do. Especially since my mom’s departure had left a giant-ass mess in the childhood home that was now officially mine.
Mine.
It all still felt a little weird to me.
When I’d moved back to this place a year ago, my heart still broken and my life in pieces, I’d thought it would be a temporary thing, that I’d stay just long enough to get back on track. But soon, the boxes that I’d stacked into the corner of my old room were slowly unpacked, and I’d found a rhythm and a place here.
Taking care of my parents had been exactly what I needed.
But now, it seemed I was here to stay, so I guessed I’d better clean the place up.
Deciding I wasn’t quite ready for anything to do with my mom’s room and definitely not ready to tackle my dad’s things, I went back to the guest room. Since my mom had dropped the moving bomb a week and a half ago, neither of us had been back in this room, and it had been left untouched since.
The photos, the boxes, my nana’s journals… It all sat just as it had that night, like a little time capsule immortalizing our last moments together before everything had changed. I couldn’t help but follow the small path I’d made that night, running my fingers across the boxes.
I’d never asked my mom what had caused her outburst of energy that night. Why she’d suddenly decided to rummage through my dad’s shirts and her mother’s old boxes. Had she been looking for something? Had she just needed something to do to keep her busy? Or had she just needed to be close to the ones she’d lost?
Suddenly, I knew it was the latter.
Sitting in this old house, feeling the emptiness of it, I reached out for my grandma’s journal, needing my own lifeline, and I slowly bent back the pages.
Monday, May 17, 1993
Mostly sunny
High 70, Low 52
I made rhubarb pie today and washed a few loads. Went outside and transplanted some things in the garden. After dinner, I went to the senior center to work on our quilt. I walked ten blocks after supper and took William the pie.
My memory from my childhood was good.
Well, good enough for a thirty-three-year-old. But my nana had lived in the Midwest, and our visits with her had been few and far between, so trying to remember everyone she’d interacted with on a daily basis was difficult.
This was the second entry I’d encountered that mentioned William. Flipping through several more pages, I saw his name many more times—much more than my grandfather’s name—and it got me wondering …Who the heck was this guy?
There was only one person who knew for sure. Well, two. But I knew calling my Aunt Sally wouldn’t exactly be a short conversation. Plus, the nosy part of me wanted to know how my mom was doing in her perfect new life.
