“Don’t forget about her budding magician skills.” Crystal rolls her eyes.
Rebecca laughs. “She’ll outgrow that.”
“Here’s hoping,” Crystal says. Savi’s musical talent definitely didn’t come from her or Paul. Paul. His name cracks through her chest. Savi loves playing cello more than she loves playing outside or trying to make friends. It’s become her entire world, and she’s so thankful Bec can give her lessons.
“I’ve got big plans for her,” Bec says. “So get ready.”
Crystal smiles and pays their check. “Cool if I come over in a bit to go over the kitchen designs?” Though Crystal hasn’t been in Elmhurst a long time, she’s already booked several interior design jobs, and Bec’s is one of them.
“Of course.” Bec fingers her watch and then downs the last of her coffee. “Want to say an hour or so? It will give me time to put him down for a nap.”
“Sure.”
Outside, they go their separate ways. Crystal refrains from asking Bec if she wants her to walk her home. Bec knows these streets better than she does, and Crystal’s learned it’s a source of pride to be able to navigate on her own.
Rather than go home, Crystal decides to take a walk. Savi is at the library with Pam, and all of her design plans are already in her car, which is parked a block over. She takes her time downtown, waving at moms and shop owners.
When she and Paul were looking to move from Chicago, he’d immediately set his sights on Elmhurst. Once she’d glimpsed prices, she’d told him no way, but he’d made it work. He always made it work. They’d only moved in a few weeks before he died. He’d never even gotten to enjoy the house.
Crystal mulls over what they discussed in group today—emotional wounds. They had to write them down, put them in a hat, and draw one to discuss. What was Crystal’s emotional wound?
What wasn’t?
She takes a right behind a row of buildings and steps toward a clearing. There’s a bench and a few skateboarders and dog walkers. She sits and tips her face up to the sun. There’s so little time to process these days. Even though it’s summer and Savi hasn’t started her new school, Crystal’s been trying to get the house in order, set up enough jobs to cover their mortgage, foster her friendship with Bec, attend counseling with Dr. Gibbons, go to grief group, and deal with her demons … but it’s all so much. At the end of every day, she’s so exhausted, she can’t even think straight. She has too much to do at home, but she never wants to be there. Home reminds her of Paul. Home reminds her of …
She slaps her thighs and stands, picking up the pace as she loops around the park. A few cyclists shout “on your left,” and she hugs the corner of the path. Why did she pick Rebecca to be her friend? Most people would say grief, but she wonders if it’s because Bec can’t really see who she is.
Crystal can hide and Bec will accept her anyway. She pumps her fists and grinds her teeth, a terrible habit that’s given her TMJ. She makes a few more loops and then checks the time. It’s already been forty-five minutes. She hustles back to the car, blasts the air-conditioning, and drives to Rebecca’s house, which is a lovely—if not quaint—midcentury two-story home. She parks, gathers her supplies, and makes mental additions to her design plans to bring in a landscaper and slap on a fresh coat of paint to the shutters. She’ll throw it in for free.
On the way in, she still can’t shake the conversation in group today. The emotional wound she pulled from the bunch was betrayal. She’d almost choked on the word: betrayal.
She knows a little something about that. Luckily, no one else does.
She’s determined to keep it that way.
5
CRYSTAL
“Knock, knock.” Crystal eases open the door. “Bec? It’s me.”
“Come in.” Bec appears around the corner in her bathrobe, hair in a messy bun. She’s already changed out of her “real” clothes and replaced them with pajamas, even though it’s midday. “More coffee?” She raises an oversized white mug that says I BLEED COFFEE.
“You know me so well.” Crystal shuts the door and wipes her shoes on the mat. She absorbs the open foyer that spills into the rest of the house, making mental calculations of their design plans. The finished product forms in her mind—a beautiful, midcentury-modern masterpiece with muted colors and spectacular art—and she walks to the outdated kitchen.
“Did you go home?” Bec turns. Her olive skin radiates around tired, unfocused eyes. Her smile cracks her face wide open, and Crystal marvels at it—this superpower her friend will never again glimpse.
“I didn’t, actually. Just went for a nice, long walk.” She crosses to the coffeepot and pours herself a cup. “Jackson asleep?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Bec slips onto a bar stool. “When he stops napping an hour after he’s awake, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“Is he sleeping through the night already?” Crystal leans against the counter.
“Mostly.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever even heard him cry.”
Bec laughs. “Oh, he cries. Trust me.”
“I’ve never heard him.” True, she hasn’t been around Jackson a lot, but if he’s with Rebecca, he’s always asleep in his stroller or snug against her chest. She probably hasn’t even seen his face more than one or two times.
Crystal sweeps her hair over one shoulder. This morning, Savi brushed her mother’s hair and told her how much she looked like Elsa from Frozen. After she was done, Crystal had offered to brush her daughter’s hair, which was always tangled and tossed in a scruffy ponytail. As usual, they argued about it until Savi threw the brush on the floor and stormed off.
Bec moves her head to the side until it gives an audible pop. She rolls her shoulders a few times, her muscles knotted from playing cello. Savi does the exact same thing after practicing. Bec gently pats her thighs, her pale pink pajama bottoms nearly swallowing her. “Okay, plans. What do we have?”
Crystal almost thinks about picking up their earlier conversation and diving a little deeper. There are so many things she wants to know: Is Bec used to sleeping on her own yet? Does she still find herself doing Chris’s laundry or calling for him in the next room when she needs to ask a question? Does she pick up her phone to text him? Because Crystal does.
Instead of losing herself to that steady downhill battle of depressing questions and answers, she unrolls her designs across the kitchen counter. She takes her time explaining every detail and runs Bec’s fingers over different samples she pulls from her bag. She lets her choose cabinet finishes, knobs and handles, and the appropriate type of quartz.
“I love it all.” Bec taps blunt, unpainted nails on the blueprints. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to change this kitchen?”
Crystal assesses the brown cabinets, the scuffed countertops, the gummy tile under her shoes. “I’m guessing a while?”
“Almost thirty years. I remember going to friends’ houses as a child and wanting kitchens like theirs. This one is just…”
“It’s the bones that matter. It’s got good bones.”