Emmy sighs, squeezing me closer to her side. “You’re exhausted. We’re all exhausted. Let’s go to back to bed and get a little more rest. We’ll see everything clearer in the morning.”
Even so, we sit in silence for a little while longer, the mini grandfather clock that’s older than Macon tick-tocking on the mantle the only sound. Well, that and my sniffling. I can’t seem to stop the damn river leaking out of my eyes.
Then Luca turns his head and gently bites my arm.
“Ow!” I shake him off and he laughs, which makes me laugh a little.
Emmy reaches across me to slap his shoulder.
“Sorry, sorry,” he says. “I just wanted some damn smiles up in here.”
“There’s a time and a place,” Emmy says, standing up. “Grace, I’ll get some blankets for the couch. Hope that’s okay. Eva took over Macon’s old room.”
“That’s fine,” I say, my eyes darting down the hallway leading to the bedrooms.
“Unless my chivalrous son would like to give up his bed for you,” Emmy says.
“Hell, no,” Luca says, yawning.
She whacks his shoulder again.
“I’m kidding! Take my bed, fine, fine.”
I laugh. I’ve always loved Emmy and Luca’s playful dynamic, and the fact that they maintain it even when the shit goes down makes me love them even more.
After Luca changes the sheets on his bed—?thank god—?he smacks a kiss on my forehead and stumbles back to the couch.
I’ve just brushed my teeth—?something I neglected to do last night—?and settled under the R2-D2 sheets when Emmy comes in with an extra pillow. She hands it to me, then sits on the side of the bed, spinning the silver-and-rose-gold ring on her middle finger. Luca and Macon gave it to her for her birthday a few years ago.
“Think you’ll be able to sleep?” she asks.
“I don’t know. I hope so.”
She nods, patting the pillow in my lap and standing. She takes a step toward the door, but then stops and turns. She cups my chin. “You’re a brave girl, Gracie. Braver than me. I’m sorry that I ever made you doubt that you belong here. That we’re on your side. I lost my friend and I gained a daughter, and, I’ll admit, I was overwhelmed and worried about Eva spending so much time with Maggie. But, honey, I’ve always been worried about you, too. I couldn’t simply take you away from your own mother, though you know how much I wanted to. But Eva, well, I thought I could control whether or not she got hurt. She’s my responsibility. Does that make sense?”
I nod, my throat thick as a damn tree trunk.
“Maggie loves you, Grace,” Emmy goes on, sliding her hand up to cup my cheek. “Things haven’t always been easy or even friendly between her and me, but I know she loves you more than life. No matter what happens, she’ll always be your mom and you’ll always be her girl. But you’re my girl too. As much or as little as you need to be. Okay?”
And this time, when I say okay, it doesn’t feel like a duty. It feels like letting go.
I know the Michaelson house inside and out. I know Luca’s and Macon’s double beds are situated on the shared wall between their rooms. When they were younger and Macon still lived here, they would tap out Morse code at night—?or their own indecipherable version of it—?staying up way too late telling secrets through little knocks on the drywall.
I press my hand against this wall, knowing Eva’s sleeping on the other side, probably conked out from exhaustion and painkillers. Even in the barely burgeoning dawn, I can see the smooth, natural hue of my nails, so foreign and familiar at once.
I wish.
Shoving the covers back, I tiptoe across the room and crack open the door. I wait for an alarm blast, half expecting Emmy to have set up some sort of obstacle course to prevent me from sneaking out. I know she knows about Eva and me, and I assume she would view my slipping into her ward’s bed about the same way she’d view Kimber snuggling up with Luca in the middle of the night. As in total mom freak-out.
Considering Maggie wouldn’t bat an eye, the thought sort of makes me smile. Still, freak-out or no, I need this. Eva needs this. At least, I hope she does.
Hearing nothing but a silent house, I slip from Luca’s room and into Macon’s in a few quick motions, wincing as the door clicks shut a little louder than I intended.
The room hasn’t changed much since Eva moved in. Emmy used this for extra storage after Macon moved out, and there are still remnants of its former purpose. Books stacked along a wall. Boxes full of Macon’s old soccer trophies in one corner. But there are traces of Eva, too, if only a few. A picture of a woman I assume is her mother on the dresser. A wide smile like Eva’s, hair in a bun, arms stretched to the sky and her toes raised up on pointe. There’s another picture next to that one. It’s Eva and she’s dancing too, body flexed into the same position as her mother’s. I run my fingers over both frames. Side by side, their mirrored bodies are beautiful, almost sad, almost haunting. I can’t decide which effect is stronger.
On the bed, Eva is curled up under a handmade quilt, facing the wall. I slide in beside her, breathing out a sigh of relief just to be this close to her, to smell her jasmine scent, to feel her warmth. I lie there, not touching her, for a while. I listen to her breathe, thanking every wish I’ve ever sent floating into the sky that she’s safe, that I’m safe, and that I’m here next to her.
She rolls over and releases this cute little moan that makes me almost smile. I watch her sleep, drinking in all the details of her face that I love so much. I could watch her for hours, her gentle breaths, the soft flutter of her lashes against her cheek, everything that makes her Eva and takes her through the minutes, through the world. Then, suddenly, she’s not sleeping. Her eyes are open and on mine. She puts a hand on my face, letting it drift down my jaw and neck to press against my chest where my heart thrums underneath.
“You’re back,” she says. “Thank god, you’re back.”
“I’m back.”
“Maggie?”
I press my eyes closed and shake my head, all the explanation I can manage right now.
“I was so worried about you,” she says, her palm still hot against my skin.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I feel like I’ve been apologizing for the last hour, but the word fits on my tongue just right.
“For what?”
That is the question. For what? There is some fault to bear, but there’s also a lot of fault to go around. Hell, maybe no one’s really at fault. So I just say, “For everything,” because it’s true. Sometimes you say you’re sorry because you fucked up. Sometimes you just say it because everything is fucked up.
She curls her hands together against her chest. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have said what I did the other night.”
“No, you were right. My mom is here. But you have to understand that it’s never felt like that. It’s never felt like I had my mother—?at least, not my mother like she should’ve been.”