“Or,” I said, lowering my voice to a whisper, “it is a first marriage, soon regretted, and she does everything exactly to her heart’s desire the next time.”
He just looked at me. “I can’t believe you just said that. And by the way, whispering didn’t make it any less heartless.”
I sighed. “Ambrose. I know you like to save things. Dogs, children, the day. But not everybody wants it. Or needs it.”
“But some people do,” he shot back. “And those cases, if you can help, you should. Why wouldn’t you?”
“Because it’s not your problem? Or responsibility?”
“I don’t see it that way.”
“Then you plan the wedding,” I told him. “You know enough by now. Take this stuff and go nuts, if that’s what you want. It’s fine with me.”
Hearing this, he studied my face, saying nothing, for long enough that I started to get self-conscious. “It must have really been awful,” he said. “What happened to you.”
I swallowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You do, though. A boy, a great love lost, the only sunset walk you’re allowed.” He shook his head. “You can’t even see the hope in anything.”
“I see plenty of hope,” I retorted, feeling defensive. “But this is a business.”
“Which is built on the whole idea of people wanting to mark publicly the very moment they agree to be together forever, once and for all.”
“And it’s lovely when it works out that way,” I said. “Once and for all, and all. But sometimes, it doesn’t. I’m part of this kind of thing enough. I don’t need to do it on my free time, as well. Don’t you get that?”
He didn’t answer this question. In fact, he said nothing, and then, distantly, I heard the bathroom door open. By the time the girls returned, I was back at work wrapping a candle like it was my job, which, in fact, it was.
“Sorry about that,” Maya said to us. “Pre-wedding jitters, I guess.”
“We’re going to do a wish wall,” Lauren told Ambrose. “It won’t be hard to pull together, right?”
“You can use this one,” he said, nodding at the box of cards on the table. “Louna said so.”
At this, both Lauren and Maya turned to me. “Oh, wow, really?” Maya asked, her face flushed. “That’s so nice! Thank you.”
I nodded, this time staying silent myself.
“And I was thinking,” Ambrose said, “that while the patio idea is nice, I think you can do better. Why don’t you guys come back to my house and take a look at the backyard? Bee’s garden is awesome and we have plenty of space for tables.”
The girls looked at each other. Maya said, “Really?”
“Why not? At least there won’t be ashtrays.”
“Or incubators,” Lauren said. “Oh, and we could put flowers in mason jars! Those are cheap, right?”
“I think so,” Maya replied. “And you know what else isn’t expensive? Those little white lights, like Christmas ones, that we could string up. I wonder if they sell them in summer.”
“Even if they don’t,” Ambrose said, “someone has to have some in their attic. We’ll ask around.”
“Oh, I love this!” Maya said, clapping her hands, a smile on her face. “I mean, I know we wanted to keep things simple, but . . .”
“. . . this will be simply beautiful,” Lauren finished for her.
Maya looked like she might tear up again, or already was. “Thank you,” she said to Ambrose, clearly meaning it. Then she looked at me. “Seriously.”
“Oh,” I said, holding up a hand. “This is all him.”
And it was. I was acutely aware of this for the next forty-five minutes, as I finished the work day with them so close by, excitedly planning away. I focused on my packing, getting the tissue wrapped just right, clearly labeling each bin with its contents. Everything in its place, just as it should be, even as this crazy, last-minute event came together only steps away. But as they left at five, still chattering excitedly, and I locked up alone, I couldn’t help feeling like I’d lost. What, though, at least this time, I couldn’t say.
CHAPTER
21
WHAT DO you say when there’s nothing left to tell? Just the final details, the flimsy bits, or maybe not so flimsy at all, that round out the end of the story. This is the part no one ever wants to share. But here it is anyway.
I ditched school after first period the day of the shooting. I just couldn’t stay there, looking at my phone’s screen, empty of messages and calls from Ethan. The guard wasn’t at the school parking lot gatehouse when I left, but if he had been, I don’t even know what I would have said, what magic words I could have summoned to win my release. I was speechless, silent, and all I could do was cry. And I didn’t even know anything for sure yet.
That would come later, hours after I showed up tear-stained and shaky at the office, giving William what he would later call, when he told his part of this story, “the scare of his life.” He was not a news person, and my mother never paid attention to anything on TV or radio other than Daybreak USA, which she’d cut off early that morning. So they’d had no idea what was going on, instead immersed in the details of their bucking bronco wedding. We’d had to go next door to the stationery store, where they had a TV in the back, all of us crammed into their tiny office watching live coverage. I remember my mother kept looking at me, her face more worried than I had ever seen it, while William held my hand, his other arm over my shoulder. So close, and yet nothing, and no one, could get to me.
I tried calling Ethan every few minutes, and checked his Ume.com page, where other people were also begging him to update. He’d last logged in the night before, posting a picture of his cleats after a particularly muddy practice. I’d look at them a million times.
Later, at home, after a pizza arrived that no one ate, my mom and William kept leaving the room for huddled conversations of which I caught only a word here and there: “contact,” “question,” “interfering,” “necessary.” They asked if I had a number for Ethan’s parents, an address, anything. I didn’t. But even if I had, I wasn’t sure I could have called at that point. Ethan would never have made me worry. He would have gotten in touch, somehow, as soon as possible. So I knew, by then. But I didn’t want to know.