to live it with you.”
He smiles and brushes his forehead against mine. And then he kisses me and it tastes like hot apple cider inside my mouth. “I’ll always be with you,” he repeats, murmuring into my ear. “Just don’t ever say goodbye.”
I rest my head against his chest as tears drip down the sides of my face.
We continue to hold and kiss each other, until the sun rises up and paints a strip of gold across the water .nbsp;.nbsp; and I wake up.
THE SUN BEAMS THROUGH my bedroom window. I squint against it and roll over in bed, wondering why my alarm clock didn’t go off, especially since today is the day I’ve planned to see Travis’s mother.
Around ten, Craig comes to pick me up. He volunteered to take me to Mrs. Slather’s condo. Just a few days ago, I told him and Raina the full story—about the necklace, about my sister, Emma, and how my relationship with Travis has gone from zero to sixty in less than a week.
“Are you nervous?” Craig asks, pulling up in front of her place.
We’re in one of those condo parks, the kind where all the units, including the shrubbery that surrounds them, are cookie-cutter perfect. Mrs. Slather’s is the one on the end. There’s a rust-stained car parked out front and a few rolled-up newspapers on her welcome mat.
“Do you want me to come with you?” Craig asks.
I shake my head and climb out of the car, the necklace pressed in my palm. There are ten stairs up to her door. I climb them slowly, trying to calm myself down—to slow the pounding of my heart.
At the eighth stair, I pause and look back at Craig’s car. He gives me a thumbs-up and I do the same back, grateful that he’s here. And that I’ve come this far.
My fingers shaking slightly, I take a deep breath and continue to the door. Finally, I ring the bell. I can hear someone moving inside. The door opens a couple seconds later.
“Can I help you?” the woman asks.
She’s older than I imagined, maybe in her late sixties, with silvery hair and a crooked mouth.
“Are you Jocelyn Slather?” I ask, hearing the quiver in my voice.
“Who are you?” Her tiny blue eyes narrow on me. The deep lines that surround them branch out like tree limbs.
“I think I have something of yours,” I say, ignoring the question.
Her mouth tenses into a frown. “And I think you’ve got the wrong person.”
She goes to shut the door, but I’m able to stop it by jamming my foot into the doorway. I dangle the necklace in front of her eyes.
“Where did you get that?” She looks past me, toward the street, to see if I’m alone.
“Travis wanted you to have this.”
“Who are you?” she repeats.
“I’m a friend of your son’s.”
“Well, my son is dead.” She goes to shut the door again, but my foot is still jammed in the way.
“Please,” I say. “I mean, I know it sounds crazy, but hear me out. I have dreams about him.”
She shakes her head and leaves me at the door, tells me she’s going to go call the police.
“Just wait,” I insist, flinging the door wide.
Travis’s mother picks up the phone and clicks it on.
And so I just spill it, blurting out every detail that Travis told me—about Mother’s Day and the soggy French toast, how he gave her wildflowers, and how the necklace was ripped from her neck. “It was thrown across the bathroom,” I tell her. “You looked for it everywhere, but couldn’t find it. It was in the radiator.”
Mrs. Slather stops dialing and drops the phone. Her hand trembles over her mouth.
“He wants you to know that he doesn’t blame you for his death,” I continue.
“How do you know all this?” she asks, coming toward me again.
“I dream about him,” I repeat, holding the necklace out to her.
She takes it and tries to say something. Her mouth moves to form words, but nothing comes out.
“I know it doesn’t make sense,” I say, “but maybe it doesn’t need to. Maybe the only thing that matters right now is that you stop living a life of guilt.”
And maybe I’ll do the same.
IT’S SATURDAY AFTERNOON, A full three weeks since my visit to Mrs. Slather.
And a full three weeks since I’ve seen Travis.
I’m sitting in Stanley’s Coffee Shop with Craig and Raina, a large cup of regular positioned on the table in front of me, since, oddly enough, Stanley’s bland-o blend is actually starting to grow on me.
“So, how are you holding up?” Craig asks.
I shrug, trying my best to stay optimistic. The truth is, aside from Travis’s absence from my dreams, my life here has gotten more palatable—not unlike Stanley’s java.
It’s weird, but moving halfway across the country—far from all-things-Emma—has brought her closer. Just yesterday, when I was whipping up a batch of butterscotch pudding in the kitchen, I accidentally said Emma’s name in front of my parents—since Emma and I used to barter over who would lick the spoon, the bowl, and the stray droplets of spilled batter—and neither of them snapped at me. They just sort of exchanged a look and, though I wouldn’t stake my life on it, I’m pretty sure I saw a tiny smile wiggle across my mother’s lips.
For her—and them—that’s huge.
Then, about two and half weeks ago, I opened my closet to look at the skates, to really see them for the first time in five years—white with red stripes running down the sides, glittery pink laces, and a giant scratch on the front from when I wiped out doing a spin.
I took them out and left them by my desk, so I’d be forced to look at them all the time. After a couple days, the anxiety wore off and they became just skates. Nothing more. And so I ended up donating them to Goodwill, opting to remember my sister by thinking about all our butterscotch concoctions and the times we made blanket forts under the dining room table.
“You’re looking a whole lot better,” Raina says, repositioning one of the many barrettes that adorn her hair. “I mean, I was seriously considering staging a Clinique intervention
