“Don’t remind me.”
He bites the inside of his cheek. “Guess we should actually tell people the wedding is off, huh? My mom is not gonna be happy.”
“Yeah, mine either,” I say. “But let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. We’ll get out of here.” My ribs tighten at the thought of canceling. That’s strange. Why does the thought of canceling make me want to cry? The grief must be making me extra emotional.
His eyes roam my face and hands, then my lap, before reverting to the road. “On the bright side, we did find out some crucial information. You got some closure with Kassie and I got to talk to my mom. Is there anything else you still want to find out? Maybe we can revisit our brainstorming list,” he adds.
“There is still something . . . ,” I start, nervously biting the inside of my cheek.
“What’s that?”
“I think I want to visit my dad’s wife.” Talking about Renner’s sister piqued my interest. His sister was taken away from him far too soon. And it seems like I don’t even make an effort to see mine, both of whom are alive and well. That doesn’t sit right.
He’s quiet for a moment. “Want me to come with?”
My heart warms at his offer. “Yeah. I do.”
“Then I’ll be there.”
His words have a soothing effect. And when he reaches over the console to give my hand a squeeze, the knot in my stomach uncoils, just a little bit.
We may be stuck in this strange, strange reality, but for the first time in my life, it feels good to rely on someone. Even if it’s Joshua Taylor Renner.
TWENTY-FOUR
When Dad told me about the lake house in Fairfax, I pictured an ultramodern boxy structure similar to his high-rise in the city, all cement and floor-to-ceiling windows. I certainly didn’t picture this lived-in, farmhouse-style home.
One look at the disheveled Barbie in the rosebush and the overturned child’s pink bicycle in the middle of the pebbled path, and it’s clear a family lives here. There’s a tug in my stomach when I spot the pastel chalk hearts and hopscotch. These were drawn by my little sisters.
Renner senses my hesitation when we reach the door and nudges my hand gently. I don’t know what to make of this strange shift between us. Last night at prom and again at Walnut Creek, I could have sworn he wanted to kiss me. And I secretly wanted him to. But the moment we returned home, both of us tensed up and retreated to our respective bedrooms (him in the spare room, me in the main bedroom) for the night without a word.
I can’t help but wonder if his kindness toward me is just an extension of his people-pleasing. Trying to make me feel better, because he’s an absurdly good person.
“Are you gonna ring the doorbell?” he asks.
“Don’t rush me,” I whisper, just as the door swings open before I even have the chance to knock.
A dark-haired girl with a ponytail and a cute purple outfit greets us. When our eyes meet, she shrieks and flings herself into my arms. “Charlotte! Charlotte’s here!”
Based on her enthusiasm, I’d wager she knows me. The fact that we have some sort of relationship makes me feel marginally better, and I return her hug.
“Lily, who’s there?” a distinctly older voice calls. A woman hustles down the wooden staircase in a pair of track pants and a stained white T-shirt. It’s Alexandra. The nonglamorous version with thick, chocolate-brown hair cascading down her back. Even without makeup and fancy clothes, she’s naturally stunning, with dark brows that somehow convey everything she’s thinking. Right now, she looks shocked. “Charlotte?”
“Hi,” I squeak.
I find myself squished in between my sisters on a beige couch with too many throw pillows. Lily, the younger of the two, doesn’t want to leave my side. Before I can properly greet Alexandra or Marianne, she’s pulled me to her bedroom to show off the dress she’s going to wear to my wedding.
Marianne is less bubbly, but no less eager to see me. I think she’s the more inquisitive of the two, slightly suspicious of people in general. Not unlike myself. She’s also enthralled with Renner, who she’s been staring at like melting ice cream since we arrived.
As Marianne bombards me with questions about whether I’ve seen Molly and Polly, a new Disney movie that she’s obsessed with, it strikes me that they don’t treat me like a stranger. They treat me like their big sister.
Alexandra brings us to the family room, with a sweeping view of the lake. If I’d known the lake house had views like this, maybe I’d reconsider spending my summer here.
“I hope you’re not too offended by the pigsty that is my house. Cleaning has fallen to the wayside with this nasty flu,” Alexandra says, cheeks pink with embarrassment as she sets two glasses of lemonade on the edge of the coffee table.
Usually, when people apologize for a messy home, there’s no mess at all. Mom likes to say people just want the opportunity to humblebrag about how clean it actually is. But Alexandra isn’t exaggerating. While beautiful, the house is admittedly a mess, with pieces of construction paper, glitter glue, and toys littering the table. It’s the opposite of how I imagined her, and it makes me like her, just a little.
“We should be the ones apologizing for dropping in unannounced,” I note.
She tilts her head. “The girls really missed you. Both of you.”
“How long has it been?” I ask, clumsily trying to discern how close we are.
She hesitates, her eyes dropping to her lap before responding, “Since the funeral, I think.”
My throat tightens as I digest her words. It’s been almost a year since I’ve seen them? That doesn’t sit well. “I’m sorry. Things have just been busy and—” I stop myself. “It’s not an excuse. I want to come see you guys more.”
“It’s okay. I know you’ve been busy,” she says, graciously letting me off the hook.
“I realized I never responded to your message about picking up some of Dad’s things. I know you probably don’t have it anymore but—”
She stands, brushing the wrinkles from her track pants. “I do. Follow me. It’s all in his office.”
Renner stays with the girls while I follow her down the hallway. As I step around a pile of laundry, I catch a collage of family photos in mismatched frames and pause. My breath hitches when I spot my high school graduation and seventh grade photos next to pictures of Lily and Marianne. There’s even a photo of Renner and me in front of a Christmas tree in a gold embossed frame.
Alexandra doubles back and gazes at the photos beside me. “Your dad liked to keep photos of you around. So the girls would know who you are.” That’s the last thing I expected. I’ve always assumed Dad saw me as inconvenient baggage from his past life.
“He did?” I whisper under my breath as I follow her into Dad’s office.
It smells like him. Of mahogany and fresh printer paper. Alexandra hasn’t cleared much out. Work papers and files are still piled atop the desk, seemingly undisturbed. Alexandra lets out a slow breath when she passes through the doorway, as though entering the room deflates something inside her. I feel even sadder for her than for myself. She’s stuck in this house with reminders of him everywhere.
She pulls down a box from the closet and sets it on the desk. “I know it’s a lot to go through. No pressure if you don’t want to take all of it. I know you have a lot on your plate this week with the wedding and all.”
At the top of the box is a stack of paper-clipped drawings I made for him when I was a child, with To Dad, From Charlotte written on every single one in perfectly straight handwriting. I was always obsessed with making my letters perfect. Below is a binder with printouts of all my report cards, from grade school until the end of high school.
“He kept all of this?” I manage.
“Of course he did. I think you were his favorite topic,” she says with a soft chuckle.