Rosalie’s refrigerator died three days after Nolan appeared on television.
She stood barefoot in the kitchen at six-thirty in the morning holding a carton of milk that smelled suspicious.
“No.”
She sniffed again.
Definitely no.
The refrigerator hummed.
Clicked.
Then produced a grinding sound from somewhere near the back.
“Don’t you dare.”
It dared.
By ten, Rosalie stood inside an appliance store surrounded by stainless-steel rectangles with price tags that suggested refrigerators had recently acquired law degrees.
Her daughter opened one.
“This one.”
Rosalie looked inside.
“Why?”
“Good reviews.”
“They all have good reviews.”
“This one has adjustable shelves.”
“They’re shelves.”
“You asked me to come.”
“I made mistakes.”
Her daughter shut the door.
“You spent less time buying your car.”
“My car does not protect mayonnaise.”
“That’s your standard?”
“Food poisoning creates standards.”
Forty minutes later Rosalie signed enough paperwork that she might have purchased the refrigerator, the building, or one of the salespeople.
She got home after noon.
Both dogs met her at the door.
Rosalie stepped inside and nearly tripped over one.
“Fantastic. Kill me before the new fridge arrives.”
The dog wagged harder.
She dropped her purse onto the kitchen table.
Mimi’s table.
The finish had worn pale along one corner where Baba’s forearm used to rest.
Rosalie ran her fingertips over it without meaning to.
The house had always been loud when they were alive.
Not loud in the obnoxious sense.
Occupied.
Mimi banging cabinet doors.
Baba coughing in the hallway.
A radio playing from the workshop.
Some clock chiming somewhere it had no business chiming.
Now every sound carried farther.
Rosalie opened her laptop.
Work.
She answered two messages before her phone buzzed.
A news notification lit the screen.
She almost swiped it away.
Then she saw the name.
DEVEREAUX FOUNDATION EXPANDS AUTOMOTIVE TRAINING PROGRAM
Her thumb stopped.
She opened it.
A photograph loaded.
Nolan stood beside three teenagers in blue shop uniforms.
No television lighting.
No Ferrari.
His sleeves were rolled up.
One kid held a torque wrench.
The article mentioned scholarships, apprenticeships, restoration programs, and funding for students pursuing automotive trades.
One quote held her attention.
A lot of kids get written off because they’re better with their hands than they are sitting behind a desk. Give them tools and someone willing to teach them, and sometimes that’s all they needed.
Baba would have liked that.
The thought came before she could stop it.
Rosalie looked through the kitchen window.
The workshop stood at the far end of the yard.
The roof dipped near the back.
One window had gone cloudy around the edges.
Baba had taught Nolan how to use a torque wrench out there.
Not on a Ferrari.
On a lawn mower.
Nolan had been thirteen and so serious about it that Baba finally told him to stop making the face of a man defusing a bomb.
Rosalie smiled.
Her phone rang.
Her daughter.
She answered.
“Did the refrigerator survive long enough to preserve anything?”
“No.”
“Gross.”
“I’ve smelled worse.”
“I don’t want details.”
“Then why ask?”
A pause.
“Did you see the article?”
Rosalie leaned back.
“You have become aggressively interested in Nolan Devereaux.”
“I’m interested in you being aggressively weird about Nolan Devereaux.”
“I’m not weird.”
“You muted him.”
Rosalie sat up.
“How do you know that?”
“You told me yesterday.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
Rosalie stared at the wall.
Possible.
Annoying.
Her daughter continued.
“So… did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Read it.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He runs a foundation.”
“I gathered that from the headline.”
Rosalie picked at a scratch in the tabletop.
“He gives scholarships.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Automotive training.”
“I know.”
“Why are you making that noise?”
“Because you sound like you’re reading me his résumé.”
Rosalie closed the article.
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. Maybe whether you’ve ever spoken to him since he left?”
“No.”
“Not once?”
“No.”
“Not a phone call?”
“No.”
“Email?”
“No.”
“Facebook?”
“Definitely no.”
“Why?”
Rosalie opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because he left.
That had always been the answer.
He left.
No goodbye.
No call.
No explanation.
One day Nolan existed in nearly every corner of her life.
Then he didn’t.
“He moved,” Rosalie said.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the one you’re getting.”
Her daughter sighed.
Rosalie heard a cabinet close on the other end.
“Do you hate him?”
That landed wrong.
Rosalie’s fingers stopped.
“No.”
Too quick.
Her daughter noticed.
Of course.
“Do you miss him?”
Rosalie stared through the window again.
The workshop blurred behind the glass.
“No.”
That one came slower.
Her daughter said nothing.
Rosalie rubbed her forehead.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was actually going to ask whether you want me to come help clean out the refrigerator.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Fine.”
“You’re welcome.”
They hung up.
Rosalie sat with the phone still in her hand.
Do you miss him?
Stupid question.
People missed somebody at work.
A friend across the country.
A parent dead five years.
What was the word for missing somebody who had become fused to an entire period of your life?
Nolan existed inside memories Rosalie rarely opened.
Mimi’s kitchen.
Baba’s workshop.
School hallways.
The lake.
Cars.
Rain.
Graduation.
Then a blank stretch where he should have been.
Her eyes moved back to the article.
One boy had his hand on Nolan’s shoulder.
Nolan was laughing at something outside the frame.
He looked comfortable.
Rosalie hated how relieved that made her.
She closed the browser.
Work.
A client message waited.
A man had stayed at the same job fifteen years because he was terrified of leaving, even though he hated waking up every morning.
Rosalie typed:
At some point, staying becomes a decision too.
She stared at it.
Deleted it.
Typed something else.