Page 25 of A Fighting Chance
We clean the rest of the cabin less dramatically. We couldn’t very well burn everything. We throw away the broken dishes, the ripped photos, and other memories by the bucketful. We go room to room, clearing outeverything. We have some donation piles as well as keep piles, though the latter are considerably smaller. So much of her life had Charles wrapped up in it. That’s what happens after being together with someone for so long. It’s hard to discern where you end and the other person begins. There’s a memory attached to nearly everything, even things you wouldn’t think of. History has a way of lingering like the scent of a corpse on your life, on every part of it. If you’re lucky, it doesn’t saturate to the core. It you’re lucky, some things can be untangled like a fine gold chain and given back to you.
We take a brief break for lunch but don’t have to go back to the house for it. She still has food in the cabin, so we sit down on the stools at her counter for sandwiches and sweet tea. I bite into my chicken salad sandwich and audibly moan. I love her chicken salad.
“So, how’s Boston?” she asks, words muffled between chews.
“It’s good, different from here,” I say.
“Different how?” she asks.
“It’s not as pretty,” I admit, looking past her and out the window over the kitchen sink. I smile as I watch the birds in her feeder try to run each other off.
“Nowhere is pretty like here,” she says.
She’s probably right. This region heading south and into the Smoky Mountains is unmatched in scenic beauty. I take another bite of my sandwich and just enjoy this moment with Harper. We haven’t had many throughout our adult years. We were so different when we were younger but now, it doesn’t feel the same. Perhaps a little time and distance has changed us. I’ve missed her, and I’m glad for this difference now.
Maybe I could come back more, stay longer for holidays, and maybe she could come visit me as well. I think about showing Harper around Boston and that makes me happy. She hasn’t come yet, I think mostly because of Charles. He never wanted to go along and she never wanted to come without him. But, I think she’d like it there. I think about going back soon and then realize I don’t like the thought. We still haven’t talked about how long I’m going to stay, but I’m starting to remember how much the familiarity here calms me, how being here brings me peace. I find myself almost missing this place. My heart lurches.
“We should have brought the truck for all the donation bags,” I say, turning my attention back to our tasks.
She nods. “You want to walk back and get it while I keep going?”
“Sure, I can do that.” I grab our paper plates and throw them in the trash, then head out the front door.
I take the opportunity on my lone walk back to check my phone and send some emails before I make it to the truck. When I step onto the porch, I reach just beyond the kitchen door to grab the keys and see Gentry. He’s reading his book and looks like he’s just finished eating.
“Hey,” he says, barely looking up from his page.
“Oh, hello,” I say, reaching for the keys. I wait a moment but when he doesn’t say anything, I feel the need to say more, as is often my default. “Listen, I’m sorry about this morning, and before you make your speech about when to apologize and when not to apologize, just know I’m sorry because the way I acted was dumb, and I shouldn’t have, because it was my fault, so I’m sorry.” I exhale after that.
Gentry looks up at me from his book with concern in his eyes. “Can you even breathe when you talk that fast?”
At first, I don’t know how to react but as the smirk stretches across his lips, I relax. Then I throw the keys to the truck at him.
He ducks and they hit the wall behind him. “Wow, I didn’t peg you for the violent type.”
“Are you doing anything right now?” I ask.
“No.”
“Can you help me?”
“With?” He looks me up and down, a curious expression on his face.
“Harper’s at the cabin and we have a bunch of donations bagged up. I was coming to get the truck to load them in, but it’d be nice to have an extra set of hands.” I wiggle my eyebrows at him so he can take the hint.
“That’s definitely not the kind of help I was hoping you needed, but I can rally for it,” he says, rolling his eyes in mock disappointment.
Or at least, I think it’s fake. Maybe it isn’t. In fact, the longer I think about it, the longer I’m sure it probably isn’t.
“But I’m driving,” he adds, reaching behind him on the floor for the keys before bouncing out of his chair and heading toward me.
“What? Wait, I want to drive,” I say.
“I’ll tell you what, if you can get the keys from me, you can drive,” he says. He hangs the keys from his index finger in the air and spins them around—teasing me, daring me.
I narrow my gaze at him, considering his proposition for a moment but thinking better of it. “Pass,” I say, folding my arms over my chest and turning to head toward the truck.
“Wow, I didn’t peg you for a quitter either,” he says. He’s dancing on my nerves, trying to get a rise, and he’s doing a good job.