She straightens up. Takes a step back. “You can’t,” she says. “What’s done is done. The rest is up to God.”
My heart is in my throat as she clicks a key fob. A car two spots away from us beeps. She heads toward it, her feet moving as if through sludge.
“What’s done?” I call out to her. She puts a hand in the air, a halting gesture, but doesn’t look back.
“What’s done?” Almost a yell this time. But she’s opening her car door. Settling down with a humph inside. Her seat belt goes on and the car rumbles to life.
My phone chirps with a text. I rip my eyes from the woman. Here’s Cooper’s number. Let’s talk more soon. When I look at the car again, it’s pulling out of the space. I watch, unmoving, pulse throbbing, as it lurches through the parking lot. Jerks to a stop at the sign. Takes a blinkerless right.
My gaze sinks back to my phone, where Cooper’s number stares up at me. I press it with a shaking thumb until the option to text him appears.
Hi Cooper, it’s Fern, I write. My fingers stumble over the letters. My entire body shivers. Can we meet up?
seven
When I get to The Diner, Cooper’s already there, eating in a bright orange booth. Like Rusty’s and the rest of Cedar, The Diner never changes. Same chalkboard with decades-old “specials.” Same place-mat menus with the misspelled “choclate.” Same salty smell greeting me at the door. I inhale it like the scent of home.
I watch Cooper before approaching. His face is filthy, streaked with dirt and flecked with something blue. His big hands are clutching a hamburger, and when he bites into it, he closes his eyes. Even from here, I can see it: the juice from the dead animal slithers down his chin.
“Hi,” I say, sliding into the seat opposite him. He wipes his mouth and grins, meat between his teeth.
“I had to order without you,” he says. “I’m always starving after work.”
I’m about to tell him it’s fine when someone grasps me from behind. Envelops my upper body, pins my arms to my sides. Air catches in my throat and my heart skips. Someone is squeezing me. Cooper looks at whoever it is. Chews his burger slowly. Completely unconcerned.
“My little Ferny,” the person says, and my muscles loosen. My breath whooshes out.
“Peg.”
I twist around to hug her, and it’s like hugging Mrs. Claus. Her white hair is pulled back into a bun. Her chest is a cushion for my head. When we separate, I notice her cheeks are pink and shiny. Just as they’ve always been.
“Ted mentioned you were back,” she says. “So nice of you to help him with the move.”
“Oh. I’m doing what I can.”
Peg’s eyes well up a little. “This’ll be one of the last times you’re here then, huh?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, once Ted heads to Florida… Cedar’ll always be home, of course, but—there’ll be no house for you to come back to. It’ll belong to somebody else.”
I gape at her, watch the tears collect in her eyelashes. (Peg always vacillates between smiling and crying—“chronically emotional,” Ted calls her.) I hadn’t thought about Ted’s move like that. But she’s right. Soon, someone else will live in Ted’s house. A whole family, probably. They’ll walk up the creaky staircase and have no idea how often I sat there, elbows on knees, chin in the palm of my hands, waiting for Ted to notice me. They’ll fill his study with—what, exactly? Craft supplies? A rocking chair and cradle? It’s impossible to imagine. Impossible to think that Ted himself won’t be there. A ghost behind a closed door.
“Oh, Ferny, I’m sorry,” Peg says. “Don’t look so worried, okay? We’ll make sure you still come back plenty, won’t we?” She elbows Cooper, who swallows a bite of burger and nods. “And you can always stay upstairs with me. I’ve got one of those sleep-sofa things. My nephew says it’s comfier than a cloud.”
I chuckle in acknowledgment, even though she was right the first time. Once Ted’s gone, I’ll have no reason to come back. Not even Rusty or Peg will be enough, though they spoiled me as a kid with stickers and milkshakes and smiles. Just like that, Cedar will be erased from the map of my life. No town with spotty reception. No woods that darken the road to home. No Cooper, either. I look at him now. There’s ketchup