Page 44 of Call You Mine
Usually, the mess would overwhelm me, leaving me focused only on getting it cleaned up, and nothing else.
But tonight, it seems to bother me a little less.
It’s like there’s a dullness to the feelings, enough for me to push it to the back of my mind for the time being.
I haven’t seen my little sister this happy inyears.
Georgie’s dad loved collecting records—something I’d forgotten about until she asked Anderson about his.
I doubt Georgie remembers being moments away from walking for the first time as her dad frantically tried to find the perfect soundtrack to have playing during her first steps. All the while, my mom held Georgie’s little hands, and I held the video camera.
Or how she used to fall asleep in her crib to warm, soft music.
She would nap to the faint crackles and pops beneath whatever her dad had playing throughout the house, the gentle hiss that made everything feel so close—like theinstruments and the voices were right there in the room with her.
I remember asking him why he collected them, especially when there were many different, cheaper, more convenient ways to listen to music. He explained how each one was a moment in time, and that listening to the record was a way he could revisit the memory. To make sure he never forgot it. It didn’t make much sense to me then—I was still in high school.
It wasn’t until after he passed, after the fire, after Jett, that I realized what it meant to hold on to memories worth keeping. That’s when I started collecting matchboxes. It’s only been a few months, and I barely have enough to fill that bowl in my apartment.
But there hasn’t been much I’ve done these last few months that I want to commit to memory—a lot of it has been going through the motions, not worth finding something to hold on to.
I wonder what happened to all of Steven’s records.
The back of my eyes prickle as I help Anderson clean up his kitchen from dinner, but I blink away the emotion, focusing on the task at hand. The two of us naturally fall into a rhythm of him scrubbing the pans and plates clean, while I dry them before putting them away in the open cabinets.
The impulse for order, the need for everything to be in its place, isn’t as strong as it was when we first got here—it’s always there, lingering in the back of my mind, but I just… ignore it. Something that’s much easier said than done, and something I haven’t been able to do in months.
Maybe it’s the record Georgie asked Anderson to put on, the soft hum of the music settling my anxieties about coming over here and planning out all the final details of mine and Anderson’s marriage—fakemarriage.
Or maybe it’s the man next to me—who had dinner ready for us and made my sister’s smile reach her eyes for the firsttime in days, maybe even months, knowing how long she’s been suffering in silence.
“How are you doing?” Anderson asks, breaking our comfortable silence for the first time since our polite, surface-level conversation while the three of us ate.
We shared random details from our days while Georgie kept asking Anderson about which records were his favorite, when he started collecting them, and if he had listened to them all.
He answered every single one of her questions with that easy smile and a thoughtful answer. I stayed quiet most of dinner, watching the two of them get to know each other in their own way and enjoying my first full, warm meal in…I don’t know how many days.
The protein bars and energy drinks have kept me moving, but they don’t even come close to Anderson’s cooking.
I don’t want to let myself really think about hownormaltonight has felt so far. The three of us sharing a meal, Anderson on one side of the counter, standing as he bent to eat over his plate; Georgie and I seated across from him.
While it is essential for the three of us to play our parts in this, it’s just an act.
Georgie needs to feel comfortable with Anderson—but not too comfortable.
I don’t want her feeling like she’s lost someone all over again once the adoption is finalized, and this all comes to an end.
“I’m good,” I answer noncommittally, my mind still wandering. I hold out my towel-covered hands for him to give me the pan he’s washing, but he just turns his head, raising a brow.
“If we’re going to be husband and wife, you’re gonna have to be honest with me.”
I snort. “Fake husband and wife,” I say, just above a whisper so Georgie doesn’t hear.
Anderson’s eyes flash withsomethingbefore it disappears. He cocks his head, setting the pan back down in the sink, turning around to lean against the counter. He wipes off his wet hands on his jeans before running a hand through his hair.
“Speaking of which,” he starts, glancing over at Georgie, who is far too invested in the Journey record in one hand and the Celine Dion record in the other. I have to roll my lips together to hide my smile—the wide range of the artists in Anderson’s collection is showing even from across the room. “We should probably finish up our plan, huh?”
Our.
