Of course I knew what he meant—and in what way he loved me: a fond, surrogate-big-brother way. But the words still caught me off guard, along with the goosebumps that rose on my arms as I whispered it back. I love you, too, Nolan.
In that second, I could no longer deny what I had been trying to deny for weeks, maybe even years: I had a crush on Nolan. It was absurd on so many fronts. Even the word was flimsy, silly, and stupid amid our monumental loss. Beyond the fact that Nolan was too old and way too good-looking for me, he was my brother’s best friend, off-limits before, and certainly now. Besides, how could I be attracted to anyone so soon after my brother’s death? It was the kind of inappropriate thing that would happen to Josie, not me. And yet, there it was—as unmistakable as my clammy hands and racing, guilty heart.
I looked away, telling myself that the whole thing was probably in my head, some sort of delusional reaction to grief. Post-traumatic stress. It would pass. And even if it didn’t, nobody would ever know. I would never tell him. I would never tell anyone.
“We better go,” I said, backing away from him.
“Yeah,” he said, running his hand through his hair, looking rattled. “I better head out.”
A few seconds later, we were back downstairs in the foyer, saying an awkward good night.
“So you’re leaving for school tomorrow?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Tomorrow morning.”
“Okay,” Nolan said, giving me a quick hug followed by a peck on the cheek. “Take care of yourself, Mere.”
“You, too, Nolan,” I said.
“I’ll keep in touch, I promise,” he said as sincerely as you can say anything.
I nodded, believing that was his intention, but also doubting it would actually happen. Eventually we would lose touch, my family’s connection to Nolan becoming a secondary casualty of our tragedy.
—
“SO I HAVE a proposal for you,” I say to Harper when I find her in her bedroom (my childhood bedroom) after officially canceling our dinner plans and changing into my most comfortable pajamas.
She looks up from her collection of stuffed mice, which live in the bottom drawer of her nightstand, and says, “What is it?”
“Do you know what that means?” I ask, sitting on the edge of her bed. “It’s a deal. Do you want to make a deal?”
She gives me a suspicious look but nods, willing to at least hear me out.
“If you brush your teeth and get right in bed, I’ll read you two bedtime stories and…” I pause to build suspense. “I won’t go out.”
With a glimmer in her eye, she says, “No babysitter?”
“No babysitter,” I say.
She grins at me. Other than my mom, Nolan’s parents, and Josie, Harper hates having a sitter, especially at night, and even the fun, young ones send her into a tailspin of separation anxiety and grief.
“But you have to go straight to bed after that. Lights out. And you have to stay in bed. No shenanigans.”
She stares at me, and I can see the wheels turning in her head.
“Do we have a deal?” I say, knowing that I’m up against the single best negotiator in Atlanta.
Sure enough, she has a counteroffer. “Four books,” she says.
I try not to smile as I say, “Three.”
“No, five,” she says, holding up one fist, then opening it, flashing her fingers.
I shake my head, calmly explaining that it doesn’t work that way. Once she says four, she can’t go back up to five. But because I admire her moxie, I give in a little bit. “Let’s start with three and see how that goes. If it’s not too late, we’ll do a fourth. Now go on,” I say, gesturing toward her bookcase. “You choose, honey.”
Jubilant, she skips to her bookcase, strategically selecting three of her picture books with the most words per page. The girl is no dummy. Her first two selections are solid, but then she reaches for Horton Hears a Who! and I let out a little groan. Although I love the book’s strong moral message of tolerance and equality, I’m not in the mood for Dr. Seuss.
“Can I get one veto?” I say, thinking there are so many great books we’ve neglected for a while.
“No, Mommy,” she says, putting her hand on her hip. “You said I could choose. And I choose Horton Hears a Who!”
“Fair enough,” I say. “Now, c’mon. Go brush your teeth.”
She nods, then heads straight for the bathroom that my sister and I used to share, while I straighten up her toys, tuck in her mice, and settle into her twin bed to wait for her.
A few seconds later, she is back. I resist the urge to tell her she couldn’t possibly have brushed her teeth thoroughly in that amount of time, and instead just slide over, making room for her. She climbs into bed, smelling of bubble-gum toothpaste, and hands me Sylvester and the Magic Pebble. It is one of my favorites—and one I can remember my mother reading to Josie and me when we were kids. I tell Harper this because she loves hearing about “Mommy and Josie” when we were little. She smiles, her face lit with anticipation as she nestles into the crook of my arm. I open the book and start to read in my most animated voice, savoring the sweetness of the moment. Reminding myself to never take anything for granted.
chapter five