Page 67 of The Words We Lost

“Sounds like a great date. I hope you have a really nice time.”

“Me too.” She turns the glass in her hands. “I guess ... I guess I also wanted to tell you so you knew I wasn’t after Joel.”

Stunned at her bluntness, I start my own nervous stammer. “Oh, I wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t think—”

She laughs and holds up a palm. “Of course you did. I would have, too, if I were you. Don’t get me wrong; I’m no saint. If Joel would have shown any real interest in me other than as a friend, it would have been difficult to turn him down. But I’ve known about you since my first coffee date with Cece. The way she talked about the three of you was...” Her sigh is wistful. “It made me wish for friends like that.”

My chest squeezes at her honesty, which forces me to process some honesty of my own. The three of us had been something wonderful once upon a time, sharing a bond in friendship that was almost too good to be true, but it hadn’t been that way for many years now. It was death that had divided our original trio into a duo, and death, once again, that had divided our duo into two broken individuals who’ve lived as little more than strangers up until a week ago.

“It’s obvious Joel still cares for you—a lot. And I know it’s not my place to say something like that, but I adored Cece. We all did. I know she was really looking forward to having you come up and stay with her. She had plans for you and Joel during her recovery.”

The erratic beat in my chest quickens. “What kind of plans?”

“She never told me the specifics, but it involved her using some kind of dictation app on her phone. I only know because I walked in on her once in the hotel library, thinking she was on a call, but shewas actually recording herself talking. All she told me was that it was for a special project she was trying to finish up before her surgery.”

Her explanation answers a question about the memoir I should have thought to ask days ago. The pages were typed and yet according to Wendy, Cece wasn’t often on her laptop due to her migraines. The use of a dictation app that downloads straight into a word document would make the most sense. It would also explain some of the homonym errors Joel has caught during his readings. Several authors on my list choose the dictation method for drafting. Although for Cece, it wasn’t a fiction tale she was drafting, but a retelling of her most poignant memories.

Prior to this conversation with Madison, I couldn’t imagine asking her any questions about Cece, much less about the greater search I was on, but now it seems foolish not to. “Do you remember seeing her working in any composition-style notebooks in those last few weeks?”

Madison scrunches up her nose and peers up at the ceiling. “Hmm, not specifically, no. But I do know a lot of that type of stuff went to Wendy’s storage unit a few months after the funeral. When Wendy was... struggling, she was very concerned about Cece’s personal items being left inside the cottage while there were so many strangers and fans lurking around town. I spent a weekend helping Patti clear out most of Cece’s closets and clothes and the extra books she kept in the spare room, but we left everything on her living room shelves alone.” She gestures to the living room. “It felt wrong to disturb those ones. Keeping them out made it feel like she could still come back, you know? That’s how I’ll always remember her most, with a hot cup of coffee in one hand and a good book in the other.” Her voice gives out on the last words, and she pinches her lips together.

And much like with her younger sister, I feel an inexplicable gratitude for having met her and for knowing that Cece had found a friend in her, too.

“Thank you for doing that for Wendy, Madison,” I say through a quiver in my voice. “I’m really glad Cece had you as a friend.”

She touches my arm with a carefulness I know is more about me than her, and in a moment so far outside the scope of my normal, I give her a hug. She wastes no time in hugging me back. “And I’m really glad I finally got to meet Cece’s Ingrid.”

After blowing a final kiss to a now-snoring Rita, Madison waves good-bye and takes off for her date in Seattle, leaving me plenty of time to confirm and get ready for a date of my own.

I text Joel that five-thirty will work just fine for dinner.

While Rita sleeps in her playpen, I take a proper shower, all while keeping one ear attuned to a very specificpotty whine. After the moment Madison and I shared in the kitchen, I feel all the more obliged to give Madison a good report when it comes to her fur baby.

Wrapped in a bath towel, I pass over the fancy dress I purchased from Madison’s Wardrobe and land instead on a pair of light linen slacks and a fitted black top with lace detailing at the neckline. I style my hair down, adding some loose waves with a flat iron I found in the bottom drawer of the bathroom cabinet. The discovery of the hair tool made me pause as I recalled the tedious process of straightening Cece’s thick, bouncy curls the night she declared she “wanted to try a different look.” Saidlookdidn’t last even twenty-four hours before she revived her corkscrew locks with a shower and anti-frizz gel, claiming she was too spicy for sleek hair.

I lift my face to the mirror, hearing her makeup instructions as if she were standing right here next to me:“Don’t skimp on the eyeliner”and“Make sure to use the plum eyeshadows—they bring out the gold in your irises.” I unscrew the sheer, petal-pink lip gloss and apply it before smacking my lips together three times afterward, the same way she always did with the cherry lip balm she was never without.

It had been Cece who’d helped me get ready for my first official date with Joel as his girlfriend. He was only weeks away from entering a new stage of life, taking remote business classes in the evenings while shadowing his father at the hotel during the days. But somewhere in between it all, our unspoken commitment to one another had managed to find a voice all its own. And on a cold January evening, as snowflakes dusted the hoods of our coats, Joel took my hand in his and asked me to be something more than his friend. And my answer left zero room for any second-guessing.

So much of my world had changed after my father left for rehab in Seattle. Instead of the sofa bed Wendy routinely made up for me as her weekend houseguest, I became more of a permanent roommate. She’d purchased a second twin-sized mattress and box spring set to add to Cece’s dollhouse-sized bedroom. It was comical the way the two of us had to shuffle around each other, as there wasn’t enough space for both of us to stand in the gap between our beds at the same time. But in all those months of working together at the hotel and sharing a room at her mom’s place before my father came back from rehab and I eventually left for college, we never once complained about the lack of space. If anything, the close quarters solidified our bond.

“You realize it really doesn’t matter what you wear tonight, right?”was the question Cece had asked as she flung herself onto the floral duvet cover Wendy had picked out for me. She folded my pillow to fit under her chin, kicked her shoes to the floor, and scanned the three outfits laid out across her own mattress.“If Joel can’t take his eyes off you when you’re wearing our Campbell Hotel polos and those hideous pleated dress pants—then any of these options could potentially send him into cardiac arrest.”

Though my stomach fluttered at the mention of his name, I’d reached for the only other pillow in the room and chucked it at her head.

“You know it’s true.”She’d shrugged, stacking her pillow atop mine before flipping onto her back.“The only thing he’s gonna care about is the kissability of your mouth.”

I’d gaped at her.“Cece!”

“Oh, please, don’t you dare act shocked by that. You know the way he looks at you is a step shy of stalkerish.”

“No, it’s not,”I’d defended.“He’s been nothing but a gentleman.”

“I’m positive that’s because Uncle Stephen made sure of that.”She’d shot her eyes to the ceiling.

My face had blushed a thousand shades of crimson, causing Cece to bust out laughing. She rolled up on her shoulder.“All I know is that whether you choose the red, blue, or black sweater for your date”—she pointed to each of my fashion choices on her bed —“you are so getting kissed tonight.”

Rita’s potty whine pulls me out of the memory, and I’m halfway down the hallway before I realize it’s the first time I don’t want to push the grief away.

---