“Hey, Mclean. It’s Riley. Just checking in. . . . That was kind of intense earlier, huh? Deb’s a nervous wreck. She thinks you’re mad at her. So maybe call her or something, if you get a chance. Hope you’re doing okay.”
Kind of intense, I thought, hitting the END button and putting my phone down beside me. That was one way to put it. I had no idea how long they’d been looking at that page on Ume, if they’d really read any of my other profiles or just looked at the pictures. I could hardly remember what was on them, now that I actually thought about it. Wondering was enough to get me off the couch and down to the garage, so I could get my laptop and find out.
I flicked on the light by the door, then walked over to the SUV and grabbed my bag from the front seat. I was just shutting the door when I looked over, across the empty bay beside Peter’s car. There was another vehicle parked on the other end, next to a rack filled with hanging beach chairs and pool toys. It had a cover over it, but there was something familiar enough to make me come closer and lift its edge. Sure enough, it was Super Shitty.
Oh my God, I thought, pulling the cover off completely to reveal the dinged red hood, dusty windshield, and worn steering wheel. I’d thought for sure that my mom had sold it, or junked it entirely. But here it was, amazingly, pretty much how I’d left it. I reached down to the driver’s-side handle, trying it, and with a creak, it swung right open. I slid behind the wheel, the familiar seat wheezing a bit beneath me, and looked up at the rearview mirror. A Gert—one of the rope and beaded bracelets we’d always bought at the surf shop in North Reddemane—was tied around it.
I reached up, touching the row of red beads dotted with shells. I couldn’t remember my last trip to North Reddemane, or how long it had been. I was trying to figure it out when, in the rearview, I saw the storage rack stretched against the garage wall behind me. It was lined with rubber bins, and from where I sat, I could see at least three of them were labeled MCLEAN.
I turned, dropping my hand, and looked again. My mom had mentioned they’d been storing stuff here, because of all the extra space, but I’d had no idea she’d meant anything of mine. I started to push myself out of the seat, then reached back up to pull the Gert loose and take it with me.
Upon closer inspection, the shel looked like Dave’s dad had been at it: bin after bin, clearly marked. I squatted down, pulling out the first MCLEAN I’d seen, and pried open the top. Inside, there were clothes: old jeans, T-shirts, a couple of coats. As I quickly picked through them, I realized they were a mix of everything I’d left stashed at my mom’s house when I was there for vacations and weekends, culled from all our various moves. Scuffed cheerleading shoes that belonged to Eliza Sweet, the pretty pink polo shirts Beth Sweet had favored. The farther down I dug, the older the things got, until I was down to my Mclean clothes, like layers of the earth being excavated.
The second box was heavier, and when I got it open I saw why: it was full of books. Novels from my bookshelf, notebooks scrawled with my doodlings and my signatures, some photo albums and a couple of yearbooks. I picked up the one on top, which had the words WESTCOTT HIGH SCHOOL embossed across the cover. I didn’t open it, or anything else, instead just putting the lid back and moving on.
The last box was so light that when I first yanked it out, I thought it must be empty. Inside, however, I found a quilt, recognizing it after a moment as the one my mom had given me the day my dad and I had left for Montford Falls. I knew I’d taken it then, and so must have dumped it off with the clothes and books at some other point and not realized it. Unlike the one on our couch, it still felt new, stiff, unused, the squares neatly stitched, not missing any threads. I put it back, pushing the box in with the others.
It was so weird to find a part of my past here, in this place that was no part of me at all. Tucked away in a bottom floor, underground, like Dave’s storm cellar. I got to my feet, sliding the Gert into my pocket, and covered Super Shitty again before picking up my bag and heading back upstairs.
My mom was still busy with the twins as I sat down at the massive kitchen island on one of about ten matching leather bar stools and booted up my computer. As it whirred through its familiar setup, I let myself, for the first time in hours, think about Dave. It had just been too hard, too entirely shameful, to think of his expression—a mix of surprise, studiousness, and disappointment—as he’d looked at that list of profiles with everyone else. A clean slate, he’d said about that moment when I knocked him down. Real. He knew better now.
I opened my browser, clicking over to Ume.com and typing my e-mail into the search box. Within ten seconds, the same list they’d seen was in front of me: Liz Sweet, the newest and most sparse, on top, all the way down to Mclean, the one I’d had back home in Tyler all those years ago. I was just clicking on it when I heard the chime of a doorbell from behind me.