Page 49 of Now to Forever

“By all means.”

She watches me work until she seems to decide she wants to help, grabbing the other scraper and prying the linoleum with me.

“You and my dad got a lot done in the kitchen the other day.”

I grunt.

“And he came home in wet clothes . . .”

“He went swimming,” I say, scraping harder.

“And he was in a bad mood.”

“Fine,” I add, more aggression in my movements. “He went swimming against his will.”

“Why?”

“Jesus, Wren,” I snap, driving my scraper into the wooden subfloor making it splinter. I glare at her. “Drop it.”

The truth is, I feel like shit about it. The truth is, every word Ford said to me was true. The truth is, since I don’t know what to do with any of it, my current plan is to pretend it doesn’t bother me even though the visual of him pressing up against the window has lingered in my periphery ever since it happened.

She mutters something under her breath and rolls her eyes. But, to my surprise, she keeps scraping.

Not another word is spoken until the linoleum is peeled up and dragged outside. I grab us two bottles of water from a mini-fridge in the middle of the living room.

“It’s my turn for a question,” I say after a long sip. “Why do you wear the sweatshirts?”

“I get cold,” she says, defensive as she pinches the sleeves in her fingers.

“You’re sweating, but okay.” I take another sip, studying the way her long bangs are matted to her forehead.

“What happened to your brother?”

“Going right for the jugular today, huh?” I huff. “He died.”

She raises her eyebrows, likereally?

“Fine. He liked drugs and they didn’t like him back. He got arrested for breaking into a house—I’m sure your dad told you that much—and after that he spiraled. Fast. Lost his job, seemingly lost his mind. Someone found him with a needle in his arm—a concerned neighbor or something—and”—I shrug—“as they say, the rest is history.”

“And your dad died?”

“Yes. Went on a little bender of his own.” I give her an empty smile. “And that’s two questions, by the way.”

Another token eye roll.

“Why did you tell me your mom was a poet?”

This earns a thoughtful look. “My dad and I used to read a book of poems when I was little. I always wondered what the people were like that wrote them—women I imagined. Mother Goose energy. People asked me about my mom, poet sounded better than what she really was. Nothing. Awful. A train wreck. All of the above.” She smiles but it’s sad. “And I like acrostic poems.”

I get it. Completely. “Even though everyone knew my parents, I introduced myself as an orphan.”

She laughs softly. “I’ll try that one sometime.” She screws the lid on her water bottle. “And your second question?”

I grin. “Wanna write an acrostic poem?”

She smiles fully.

And we do. All over the now-revealed subfloor of the house with black markers. Hers are better than mine. More soulful and wordy. I use small words likeskyto writeSometimes Kites Yank, but hers are more thoughtful. More heartfelt. Just more.

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