Page 88 of Goodbye Again
“Yes,” I sigh, tapping my fingernails against the ceramic mug.
“I figured he would be.”
I squint at her then ask, “Did I tell you we saw a fortune teller when we first met?”
She nods as if I did actually tell her.
“She said I’ll have many great loves in my life and most of them will be him,” I remark, and Gramma rolls her eyes.
“That sounds like a super toxic way to coerce you into thinking he’s the one for you,” she tsks.
“That’s what I thought! Like, the drama of it. It’s a seeded premonition, planting thoughts in my head that aren’t real.” I shake my head, reason finally entering the chat of this dream.
Gramma considers for a moment. “Or... she’s right.”
I raise my eyebrows at the Uno Reverse she just threw down. I shake my head again, this time like a sullen child. “No way. He’s with someone... hisfiancée!”
“Ahh.” She cups a hand over the wool blanket covering her knees, her bony knuckles sticking out. “Well, that must sting.”
“A little,” I confess. “But I’m unsure if it stings because we’re over or because we never began.”
“Or if it’s because of what that silly fortune teller said,” she adds.
“Or that,” I agree.
“Don’t come between them, Julia.”
“Oh, Gramma, I wouldn’t. That’s not me. He needs to see that relationship through without any outside influences.” I grip my mug tighter and hold it close to my chest. My gaze wanders the property. The grass is dusted in snow and the oak tree is completely bare. There’s a tire swing hanging from the large branch. I don’t remember it. But dreams do that—piece together memories into one place. Different parts of our mind, memories, and thoughts morph together to make one great tapestry of delusion.
“Good girl,” Gramma says, then stands, draping the blanket over one arm. “I better get inside. It’s getting cold.”
“She’s beautiful,” I say as she walks toward the front door.
She taps her heart twice as tears fill her eyes. “She really is.”
twenty-four
FOR ALL INTENTS ANDpurposes, JP and I ignore each other almost entirely the next morning.
We square-dance around each other in the kitchen while Alyson plays in her ball pit in the family room, and I scramble eggs and sip coffee while he mixes pancake batter and fires up the griddle. The sizzle of the butter on the iron surface is loud in our silence, except for the scream of the memory of my dream replaying in my mind.
When Audrey comes in and says good morning, quickly wrapping her arms around JP’s waist, my dream comments are confirmed: she’s beautiful. He tells her she’s going to mess up the pancakes and she laughs, still squeezing him. He swipes the pancake batter with his index finger and taps her nose. She squeals with laughter then takes his finger into her mouth, licking off the remnants.
The back of my throat throbs with envy.
I guess they made up.
“We’re doing a nine o’clock new year.”
I turn to my sister’s voice and see her shuffle into the kitchen with a milk-stained t-shirt, sweatpants with one leg pushed up, mismatched socks, and a top knot resembling a bird’s nest cocked to one side of her head. Her eyes are tired in ahaven’t slept in yearsway and Anjali is wide awake in her arms, dressed in a clean pink sleeper that says,New Year, New Meon it. Alyson is still playing in her ball pit, though with the amountof Cheerios I’ve given her to keep her occupied so I can cook breakfast, I doubt she’ll eat any of it.
I suppress my laugh and say, “I was hoping you’d suggest that.”
“Can I take her?” Audrey asks with helpful arms outstretched.
“Please,” Emily says and flops onto the bar stool, rubbing her tired brow. “I don’t think I can ever do this again.”
“What? Wake up?” JP asks, stacking pancakes onto a plate.
