The nail tech disappears to grab more supplies. I shuffle my feet through the bubbles.
“Thinking about Gwyn and Maddy?” Mom presses.
My head rolls against the back of the chair until we’re eye to eye. “Yeah.”
She reaches over, squeezes my arm. “Me too.”
Snapshots of a waiting room, television stuck on a Nick at Nite loop, the squeak of tennis shoes on shiny linoleum. A nurse in blue scrubs.
“Do you ever think about the night Maddy died?”
Mom blows out a breath. “All the time.”
“Yeah…” I drop her gaze. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately and it’s like I remember everything—it’s all so painfully vivid, but then there are these blurry pieces my memory can’t make out. I get hung up on those sometimes.”
“Like what?”
I pinch my eyes. “I can’t remember what I was wearing.” Her smile is warm when I turn to look at her. “And it shouldn’t matter. It’s trivial and dumb and I know that. But why can’t I remember when I could tell you every episode ofFriendsthat played on the television?”
The silence pulls, she scans my features. “Black leggings. And that ratty old Pike’s Peak shirt you wore every night to sleep just to spite me.”
My hands come to my face and I shake my head as the image instantly clicks into place. “Oh my god, you’re right!” I snicker. “You hated that shirt. I don’t know what you had against slumbering in comfort but whatever.”
“The only comfortIgot from that shirt was it meant you weren’t out having sex. No way any boy was finding your underage lady bits under that wretched, colossal mass of stained threadbare cotton.”
We’re both wheezing until our nail techs simultaneously clear their throats and level us with a scolding glare.
On a relieved sigh, I say, “I’m so glad you remember.”
Mom’s laugh fades into a barking cough that has me launching upright in my seat. She gives me her mom-eyes throughthe hacking fit, a silent order to keep my mouth shut. Biting back my words, I pass her my water bottle.
She takes a heavy sip, coughs some more. “Now, what else can’t you remember?”
I take a second to let the anxiety of the moment pass. Swallowing hard, I tread nervously with my next words. “That nurse was there and I’ve been trying to remember her name.”
“Pretty sure she didn’t tell us her name.”
“But you remember her, right?”
“Of course. Sweet woman. Never imagined a stranger would turn you into a chess whiz.” Mom’s playful eye roll has a fondness behind it that makes me smile.
“Do you um…do you remember what you guys talked about?” Ever since my suspicions began, I’ve been kicking myself for not paying attention to their conversation.
Mom’s brows knit together and she blinks several times, looking into the distance. “Not really, I mean it was mostly mom small talk. She said she’d been a nurse her whole career. We talked about our kids. She asked about you and Maddy, and she told me about her son she’d lost in Afghanistan.” My eyes drift shut. “She showed me a picture of her grandson on her phone, and if memory serves, it was one of those professional military pictures, you know those headshot pics where they’re in dress uniform?” A single tear slides down my cheek, and I press the heels of my palms against my eyelids. She snaps her fingers. “Oh and she said something about him wanting to join a special ops group something or oth?—”
Her words fade into nothing. For long, heavy seconds, it’s only silence as she connects the dots for herself.
“Oh my god,” she whispers, finally turning. “Do you think she was?—”
I nod, tears streaming down my face. It’s so improbable I almost want to laugh, but the overwhelming hope of it all only leaves me speechless.
Mom’s hand bridges the distance between our chairs, stroking my arm, reminding me to breathe.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I retrieve it. As fate would have it, Mr. Whitley’s name lights up the display.
Every piece of my heart already knows what he’ll say.
I tumbleinto the ballroom four hours ahead of show time, my dress and glam bag in tow, laptop cradled in my arms.