Page 148 of 10 Rings I Hate About You
“I know I’m not what she was to you and I won’t try to be,” he continued. “But you’re not alone in this. You have me. You have Cheryl. You have Adele.” He kissed the top of my head. “And going through her things. It’s not giving up on her. That’s not closing the door.” His arms tightened. “That’s the part of grief no one warns you about. That sometimes the physical things hurt as much as the loss did. That letting go of objects can feel like losing the person again even when you know you’re not.”
I pressed my face into his chest.
He got it.
“Thank you,” I managed to get out.
“You don’t have to thank me.”
We stayed on the floor. His back against the wall, my side against his chest, the apartment hushed around us.
After a while his voice came, low and even. “What would help? Something small. Something we can do right now while I’m here.”
I looked at the suitcase.
Aunt Jem’s voice arrived with the clarity it sometimes had—not a sound exactly, more the certainty of what she would say if she was standing in this room.Unpack, sweetheart. This is your home now. Act like it.
She would’ve hated the suitcase. She’d made such a big deal about unpacking my things when I arrived each summer. Like I was moving in permanently, even though we knew it wasn’t true.
“The closet,” I said, barely above a whisper. “Her clothes are still in there, and I have nowhere to put mine. She’d hate that I’ve been living out of a bag for months.”
“Show me,” he whispered right back. “We’ll do it together.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
MARC
Delaney crossed the threshold first.
I thought she’d hesitate at the door. Instead, she pushed it open and walked inside with deliberate steps as though she was afraid if she didn’t, fear and grief would stop her once again.
I followed and stayed near the door. This was her time. I was here because she asked me to be, and I took that seriously.
It was like the room was held in a pocket of time. The bed was made with precision. A paperback sat on the nightstand with a bookmark tucked three-quarters of the way through. Reading glasses were folded beside it. A small dish of crystals perched on the dresser next to a picture of her and Delaney—a younger Delaney, summer Delaney, the version of her that had belonged to this place before she knew she belonged to it.
She stood in the center with her arms at her sides and her chin slightly lifted, like she was trying to get through this with sheer determination alone. Her eyes moved across the spaceslowly.Taking inventory.I stayed near the door and waited for her to be ready to begin.
After a moment, she exhaled—long and unsteady—and turned toward the closet. “Okay,” she said. “Okay, I can do this.”
She opened the closet door. I moved closer in case it was too much for her, or if she needed my assistance in any way. The closet was filled with items reflecting the full life her aunt had lived. The evidence was in all the pieces before us. Dresses and blouses arranged by color, a gradient that followed ROYGBIV. A row of cardigans—some practical, some elaborate. The garments had been worn and were clearly loved with how well they were taken care of.
Then I saw the scarves.
She had a clear drawer of scarves. Bins full of scarves. Specific hangers that held multiple scarves. And a few were tied to the curve of a hanger as though ready to go with that outfit.
“How many did she have?” I’d seen Jem in scarves over the years, but I had no idea the extent of her collection.
Delaney turned from the cardigans she was examining and looked at the scarves. A breath of a laugh left her lips. “I know. It’s … a lot.”
“That’s … have you counted how many?”
“At least a hundred, probably more.” She touched the edge of one—silk, deep blue. “She wore a different one almost every day. Said they were the easiest way to change the whole energy of an outfit.”
I had a whole new appreciation for her collection.
“Okay. I’m thinking we need three piles. Keep. Donate. And I don’t know,” Delaney said, letting go of the scarf.
“Tell me what to do.”
