Fix. There’s that word.
“And Andrew? I don’t think it’s the same thing, Amanda. I think he feels like he’s a sacrificial lamb. Like he got saved without his input. Like he has to live with the consequences of his mother’s decision and if anything bad ever happens again, everyone around him will fall to pieces. That’s one hell of a burden to carry.”
I won’t let you pick me.
The air becomes thick, my lungs like wet balloons as I open the door and wheeze, inhaling fresh air so quickly I feel faint. Three breaths later and I’m around the car, normal. Shannon walks me into my house and, without a word, zips into the downstairs bathroom.
Mom is snoring lightly on the couch. I walk over and reposition her bent arm so she doesn’t wake up with a cramped neck. A thick fleece throw blanket over her will help keep her from getting chilled. I can’t prevent the nasty hangover that is coming in the morning, though. For that, she’s on her own.
The sound of running water comes from the bathroom as I notice a large, flat package. It’s in a delivery envelope with a familiar logo. My name is on the label.
“I didn’t order anything,” I mumble to myself, rotating the large, thin package in my hands. With a perplexed sigh, I rip open the pull tab and remove the contents.
And gasp.
It’s from Andrew.
Fragile.
One of Yes’s best albums, and from the looks of it, this was from the original release in the 1970s, long before I was born.
Shannon walks in to find me holding the vinyl album in one shaking hand, the other fishing around in the envelope. My fingers brush against a piece of paper. I remove it, handing her the album. Eyebrows crashing together as she puzzles over it all, she nonetheless stays silent, and as if reading my mind, goes over to Mom’s record player and loads the album, setting the needle to the first song.
“Roundabout” begins, the first notes low and jaunty, strumming through my blood like tidal waves caused by dropping many moons into the ocean in rapid-fire succession.
Dear Amanda,
Enjoy.
AJM
She’s reading over my shoulder and inhales sharply. “That’s it? That’s it? Oh, Andrew...” Shannon’s voice gives me permission to let the tears flow, her exasperation and polite outrage confirming that all the mixed feelings I’m experiencing are the only rational reaction to this chaos.
“Why did he send me this? Why now?” I look at the outer package. The date is from weeks ago. It was mailed from the UK. Ah. A remnant of the past.
Just like everything involving Andrew.
One look at the album cover and Shannon smiles. “‘Fragile’, huh?”
All I can do is weep.
“You want me to stay?”
I shake my head. “I’m okay. I need to be alone.” Sniff.
Except I’m not alone. The music is a talisman of something I’ve lost, yet it’s also a comfort, reminding me of a world where it was once safe to imagine I could just be with someone and not feel an obligation to prove my worth. That I could risk my heart and not be left behind.
That I could choose love.
But love didn’t let me pick him.
Shannon hugs me, a good, tight embrace that speaks of change on the horizon. Then she leaves.
Good change is still change.
It destabilizes the world you thought you knew for just long enough to make you question everything.
Everything.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“I’m reconsidering this whole wedding,” Shannon announces to no one in the room as I crash in, carrying a coffee tray filled with love and caffeine. Mostly caffeine, because on this morning of her wedding Shannon has finally morphed into Bridezilla, and I have to really dig deep to find the love.
“Dude, the room is empty. You’re talking to yourself.” I hand her a white cardboard cup of inspiration.
“No, it’s not.” Shannon points down.
To a very angry pile of tartan and flowers.
“That is a table setting,” I say, giving her the hairy eyeball. “You are talking to inanimate objects. Did you get enough sleep last night?”
“Look closer.”
The centerpiece moves.
“Oh, no,” I say, jumping back in self-defense, palms out in a gesture of supplication.
That pile of tartan and flowers is Chuckles.
“Meow.”
That is the first time Chuckles has ever said a word to me.
He’s that desperate.
I reach down to pick him up and he snuggles in my arms. Either that, or he’s using me for friction to wriggle out of the atrocity that is his outfit.
“What is he wearing?”
“Mom put him in a tartan kilt. See the pin? She made Mr. MacNevin secure an infant’s kilt pin for the—”
“Hold up. Infant kilt pin?”
She shrugs, two of her long, perfect curls sliding on her bare shoulder. “I guess it’s a thing. Anyhow, then they took the flower girl basket and Mom had it custom made for Chuckles.”
He looks like he’s wearing a saddle with two open baskets on either side, filled with rose petals.
“Mom says that as he walks, the petals will spill on the white silk runner behind him, and he’s the flower girl.”
Chuckles drops out of my hands and wanders over to the corner, curling into a ball and spilling all the rose petals on the floor.
Then he stands up and pees all over them.
“I hate to think about what he’s going to do when you throw the bouquet.”
Shannon bursts into tears.
“My mother is ruining my wedding!” she wails.
I can’t say all the normal niceties you say to your best friend in this kind of situation, because she’s right.