Page 63 of Light in the Dark
She hangs up, clicking the phone closed and tossing it aside.
"You're a genius, Ember." She kisses my cheek. "Now I just need my clothes and a few odds and ends. We can leave tomorrow." She frowns at me. "You should go back to Felix, though. I can take the Greyhound."
"Fuck that, number one. You're not taking the fucking bus." I wrap my arm around her, take a sip of spiked coffee so strong my eyes water. "Number two, I need time to think about Felix. And talk to you. You're not getting out of this road trip, Faye, so stop trying. I'm the queen of road trips, I'll have you know."
She sighs, shrugging and nodding. "Okay, okay. But if you let that man go, I swear to the Almighty, missy, I will haunt you 'til the day you die."
“We can talk about him later. For now, let's plan."
* * *
Apparently, when I said "plan"Faye thought I meant "get hammered and watch The Notebook," because that's what happens.
What do you want?WHAT DO YOU WANT?
I don't fucking know, Noah. Jesus. Lay off.
* * *
When I wake up,I'm disoriented. Someone is snoring loudly next to me.
Faye.
I have vague memories of us helping each other down the hallway, tripping over boxes as we laugh like drunk hyenas, and toppling into her bed. I'm still fully clothed, and so is she. God, she's a bad influence on me, but I love her to pieces.
I slip out of bed and tiptoe out of her bedroom, pausing in the doorway to actually see the room for the first time.
Pale blue walls, and a very old, heavy, ornate oak bedroom set—a giant king bed you damn near need a ladder to get into, a matching nightstand set, and a six-drawer bureau. The bureau is littered with life-detritus from a bygone age: a wobbly, handmade-by-a-child ceramic dish containing loose change, a gold Rolex of the type police departments give to cops when they retire, and a worn wooden-handled folding pocketknife. Beside the dish, a fat brown leather tri-fold wallet stuffed to overflowing with photos, receipts, credit cards, business cards, cash, and who knows what else. The wallet is decades old, curved concave from the shape of Tommy's butt.
My heart breaks for Faye, seeing that stuff. Her closet is open, and it looks like she tried to start going through his clothes but only got a few hangers in and gave up—there are a handful of flannel shirts crumpled on the floor, still on the hangers…dropped when the pain became too great.
I can't just leave them there.
I pick them up, re-hang them with the others, and close the closet door as quietly as I can.
I get a pot of coffee brewing and then rummage in the fridge, find ingredients, and set about making French toast—a favorite of Dutchie's that I haven't made since he died.
Faye shuffles out a few slices in, her white-pink-purple-blue-green (she added a few streaks) hair sticking up in every direction.
She shuffles straight to me and slams into me, arms snaking around my waist. "Thank you, girly."
I frown, hugging her back. “For what? It's just French toast. " It's not, but she doesn't need to know that—at least until after coffee.
"Putting his shirts away," she whispers. "I couldn't—after I dropped them, I couldn't make myself touch them again. They still smell like him after two decades in that closet. I know it's not possible, but I swear they do."
"I've got you, Faye."
She pulls away, patting my hips. "French toast—haven't had homemade French toast in I don’t even know how long. Smells good."
"Mom used to make it for me. It was her rainy day special." I swallow hard, blink harder. "I kept the tradition going—I used to make it for Dutchie on sad, boring, rainy days. He—he loved it." I shake my head. "Sorry, sorry."
Faye wipes at my cheeks. "Ain't gotta apologize to me, missy. We widows know how it goes."
I frown at her. "Widow."
She shrugs, turning away to pour herself a mug of coffee in a gigantic black mug with "world's greatest grandma" hand-painted on the side in big, blocky, wobbly, backward, third-grade handwriting. "Didn't think I'd need to explain that one."
I snort. “No, I just…I never really thought to apply that word to myself." I snort again, shaking my head as I flip the bread in the frying pan. "Learning a lot of new words to apply to myself lately."
