Page 170 of Mess With Me

I still haven’t forgiven him for getting Sasha into all of this in the first place, but I can begrudgingly acknowledge that it was decent of him to show up here. I didn’t make note of his presence, but I didn’t yell at him to get lost either. I might have if he tried talking to Sasha, but he disappeared before she even noticed he was here.

Now, Sasha takes a shaking breath. “What happens next?”

I swallow past the dryness in my throat. At some point, we have to talk about us. Soon, now that Chester’s gone.

But I know she’s not talking about that.

I glance over at the cemetery workers, who’re standing next to a digger, chatting like this is just another day. Next, they’ll come and fill this hole. In a few days, when the marker arrives, they’ll install it at the head of his plot. Then they’ll lay the sod, time will pass, and life will carry on.

She’s not talking about that, either.

I’m about to say something about heading home, but Lucas clears his throat. “Actually, I’ve got something back at Chester’s place for you. He told me I had to wait until he was ‘in the ground’ to give it to you.”

Lucas is off the clock. He was relieved from his work the day after Chester passed. But he’s here now. He only knew Chester a couple of weeks, but he proves what I know would be the truth if Chester hadn’t been such a recluse: that the old man had a way of getting you to love him just by existing. Whether he was cracking jokes or snapping grumpily at you like he did more and more of toward the end, he won’t be easy to forget.

Sasha looks quizzically up at Lucas. “What is it?”

“It’s easier to show you than to explain.”

Being back at Chester’s house is rough. I have to excuse myself, saying I’m going to check on the chickens, before remembering the chickens are already gone. When I come back inside, I can tell Sasha’s been crying, too. I wrap my arms around her, kissing the top of her head.

“I love you” is the only thing my addled brain can think of to say.

“This way,” Lucas says. He brings us back to the bedroom at the rear of the house. It’s surprisingly bright, the big window gleaming in the late afternoon sun. Boxes line the walls, each of them neatly labeled. Some of them say things likePersonal ItemsandNewspaper Clippings & Memorabilia.But most of them have date ranges on them. Those ones are in order:1921-1930all the way up to1959-1965 (Final).

Something tickles at the back of my neck. Why do they start in that particular year?

Lucas hands us a clipboard. “This is the legend for the books.”

I hold it in my hand, tipping it for Sasha so she can see it properly, too.

The clipboard holds a few sheets of paper stapled together—a printout of a simple spreadsheet, with the headingJoseph’s Diaries - 1921-1965.

Lucas points to the first column. “That’s the diary,” he says. “We numbered them all for easy reference.” A date range in the next column. “Those are the dates from the first entry to the last in each book. And those—” He points to the notes in the last cell. “Those are the high points so Chester could remember which one was which.”

The notes say things likeJ.’s feelings on the woodshed fire. A. starts first grade.Another saysJ. invited to wedding, milk delivery, letters from war.

There are lots of mentions ofJ., which I assume stands for Joseph.

But something about seeing them all makes that tingling grow stronger.

“Have you read all of these?”

“Oh no,” Lucas says. “Chester wouldn’t let me. Said he was saving them for you two. He also said once we finished them, John Kelly should read them.”

Lucas looks at me. “Is that a relative of yours?”

My stomach jolts. “That’s my father.”

“Really. That’s interesting.”

Lucas says he has to get going. He’s got a job over in Greenville starting tomorrow and needs to start prepping.

We say goodbye, and then it’s just Sasha and me staring at all these rows of boxes.

Except I can’t help but notice Sasha’s expression doesn’t mirror mine—that this is an incredible trove of history. She’s got her fingers at her lips, and when she looks at me, her expression is one of nervous anticipation.

“What is it?” I ask. I realize then that she was quiet the whole time Lucas was here with us.

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