Page 98 of Golden Hour

“Good.” A small smile curls Dr. Vernon’s lips. “When are you going to tell her?”

“There’s things I need to do first,” I say, pulling out my phone. I hold it up, opening to my contacts. I find Marla Williams, and my thumb hovers over her name. “Do you mind if I call Amy’s mom to arrange a time to drop off the boxes?”

“If you need me here to do that, I don’t mind.”

“Well, when you put it like that,” I say, dropping my phone down into my lap.

“It’s fine, Jackson. If that’s the only way you’ll do it…”

I press the phone to my ear. My heart is in my throat. The phone rings three times, and then a voice that sounds like a mature version of Amy says, “Hello?”

“Hi, Marla? It’s me.”

All I hear is a sob on the other end.

“Jackson Finch.”

Marla pauses before saying, “I would know your voice anywhere.”

35

Jackson

Marla hugs me like I came back from war.

When she pulls away, tears are streaming down her face, creating skin-colored rivulets mixing with her makeup. She sandwiches my face between her hands and looks at me.

Really looks at me.

When I see her, I see a version of Amy that will never exist. They have the same brown eyes and the same nose, but her eyes crinkle at the sides. Her smile reminds me of Amy’s.

This is why I didn’t call them earlier. It’s not because we have nothing in common anymore.

It’s because I knew it would hurt.

It does hurt, a little bit. But this feels healing too.

“I prayed that you would call us,” she says.

“I have the stuff in my car,” I say. I consolidated Amy’s stuff into six heavy boxes. The books take up two of them.

“We’ll get that later. Please come in.”

When I step inside the door, I’m brought back to the time when I was their son-in-law. The carpet is still brown, the ceilings are still popcorn. It even has the same smell of faint lemon.

They invited me over for dinner when I told them I finally went through Amy’s stuff. Marla said she would make whatever I wanted, and I specifically requested shepherd’s pie. My mouth watered the second I mentioned it, and I’ve been looking forward to it all day.

“Do you want something to drink?” Marla asks.

“Yes, whatever you have,” I say. I sit down on the couch, resting my hands on my knees.

Marla reappears with a glass of wine for me. She has a matching one.

“Rob is in the other room, let me get him.” She disappears down the hallway, and I look around, sipping the wine.

My eyes scan the mantel and there in the middle is my wedding photo with Amy.

With the help of my therapist, I now feel a twinge in my heart, not the soul-crushing weight that I felt. I honor her by moving forward.

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