she repeated before looking back up toward the sky.
I continued watching her profile for a few seconds before staring up at the star-filled sky. “Tell me.”
For hours we talked about our favorite times on the dock. A few times I saw her wipe at her cheeks, but even more often her laugh filled the night air. I kept looking for signs that Charlie had said something to her, but when the conversation turned to her visit with Charlie earlier today, there was nothing but the brightest smile from Grey. She adored my little sister, always had. Whatever was going on with Charlie, I would have to figure it out another time, because I didn’t want to worry Grey with it. Not when she was laughing a laugh I hadn’t heard in years. Not when I was smiling more than I had since Ben’s death. Not when I was fighting the urge to pull Grey into my arms so I could ask her the one question I’d been wanting to ask since we were thirteen years old. A question I’d written down in a note I had been planning on giving her before I found her in Ben’s arms that summer day.
I don’t know why I’d never thrown the note away.
I don’t know if I’d been waiting for the day Grey would leave Ben, and I could give it to her then, but I’d kept it for nine years. A note with four words on it. A note tucked into the case where I kept all my charcoals. A note I knew the girl lying next to me would never see, and a question I knew she would never read or hear—and still, a note I knew I would never be able to get rid of.
Grey
May 23, 2014
A F T E R K N O C K I N G O N Jag’s door and not getting an answer, I fumbled with my keys as I steadied the hand holding the breakfast sandwiches and stacked drinks. Shoving the key into the lock, I turned it and pushed open the door before putting the end of one of my key chains in my mouth so I could use both hands to carry everything.
Loud music met me, and I smiled around the key chain. Jagger was drawing. Letting my keys drop onto the kitchen counter, I set down everything and walked through the front room, to the hallway leading to the back rooms. I hadn’t been into the room Jagger was using as a studio since we’d moved last week, and even then, I hadn’t seen him put any of his stuff in here. I was excited to see a space where he displayed everything he worked on.
As I rounded the corner in the hall, my smile widened when I saw him standing there shirtless, working on a large piece. Just seeing him gave me an overwhelming feeling like I was home, and it didn’t make sense. I’d seen him the night before, and if any place felt like home, it should’ve been my parents’ house . . . but that knowledge didn’t make the feeling lessen. Instead, I seemed to welcome it more and more with each step closer to the man in front of me.
My smile fell as soon as he bent down to wipe the charcoal off his hands onto a towel and I saw the picture. He grabbed the eraser he’d been using to create the picture on the charcoal-covered paper, and went right back to working within seconds, but those seconds had been enough. There was no mistaking the person he’d created on that paper.
Seeing my face reflected back at me this way was something in itself—it was perfect. But Jagger didn’t draw people. He drew haunting landscapes, buildings, and abstract designs . . . never people. But when I tore my eyes from him and the piece he was finishing, and looked around at the dozens of drawings hanging throughout the part of the room I could see from where I was standing, I realized I was wrong. There were a handful of drawings of people—no, not people . . . person. Just one. Only me.
One of me that was so perfectly rendered that I would’ve sworn he’d taken a picture of me just as I’d stopped laughing. Another . . . and the only word to express the look on my face—and feel of the drawing—was “grief.” Others of me in various stages over the last few years, some where I was looking
I continued watching her profile for a few seconds before staring up at the star-filled sky. “Tell me.”
For hours we talked about our favorite times on the dock. A few times I saw her wipe at her cheeks, but even more often her laugh filled the night air. I kept looking for signs that Charlie had said something to her, but when the conversation turned to her visit with Charlie earlier today, there was nothing but the brightest smile from Grey. She adored my little sister, always had. Whatever was going on with Charlie, I would have to figure it out another time, because I didn’t want to worry Grey with it. Not when she was laughing a laugh I hadn’t heard in years. Not when I was smiling more than I had since Ben’s death. Not when I was fighting the urge to pull Grey into my arms so I could ask her the one question I’d been wanting to ask since we were thirteen years old. A question I’d written down in a note I had been planning on giving her before I found her in Ben’s arms that summer day.
I don’t know why I’d never thrown the note away.
I don’t know if I’d been waiting for the day Grey would leave Ben, and I could give it to her then, but I’d kept it for nine years. A note with four words on it. A note tucked into the case where I kept all my charcoals. A note I knew the girl lying next to me would never see, and a question I knew she would never read or hear—and still, a note I knew I would never be able to get rid of.
Grey
May 23, 2014
A F T E R K N O C K I N G O N Jag’s door and not getting an answer, I fumbled with my keys as I steadied the hand holding the breakfast sandwiches and stacked drinks. Shoving the key into the lock, I turned it and pushed open the door before putting the end of one of my key chains in my mouth so I could use both hands to carry everything.
Loud music met me, and I smiled around the key chain. Jagger was drawing. Letting my keys drop onto the kitchen counter, I set down everything and walked through the front room, to the hallway leading to the back rooms. I hadn’t been into the room Jagger was using as a studio since we’d moved last week, and even then, I hadn’t seen him put any of his stuff in here. I was excited to see a space where he displayed everything he worked on.
As I rounded the corner in the hall, my smile widened when I saw him standing there shirtless, working on a large piece. Just seeing him gave me an overwhelming feeling like I was home, and it didn’t make sense. I’d seen him the night before, and if any place felt like home, it should’ve been my parents’ house . . . but that knowledge didn’t make the feeling lessen. Instead, I seemed to welcome it more and more with each step closer to the man in front of me.
My smile fell as soon as he bent down to wipe the charcoal off his hands onto a towel and I saw the picture. He grabbed the eraser he’d been using to create the picture on the charcoal-covered paper, and went right back to working within seconds, but those seconds had been enough. There was no mistaking the person he’d created on that paper.
Seeing my face reflected back at me this way was something in itself—it was perfect. But Jagger didn’t draw people. He drew haunting landscapes, buildings, and abstract designs . . . never people. But when I tore my eyes from him and the piece he was finishing, and looked around at the dozens of drawings hanging throughout the part of the room I could see from where I was standing, I realized I was wrong. There were a handful of drawings of people—no, not people . . . person. Just one. Only me.
One of me that was so perfectly rendered that I would’ve sworn he’d taken a picture of me just as I’d stopped laughing. Another . . . and the only word to express the look on my face—and feel of the drawing—was “grief.” Others of me in various stages over the last few years, some where I was looking
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