How to End a Love Story(43)

“Did you know her at all?” she asks thickly.

“No,” Grant says, his voice hoarse. It feels like a long time since she last heard it. “She might’ve been friendly with some people I knew, but I didn’t really pay close attention to things like that, back then.”

“She was—loud and bright and unpredictable,” Helen says, thinking of squawking arguments in long car rides and sudden unexpected displays of sisterly affection. “It was like Michelle felt all her emotions, good and bad, at a higher saturation than anyone else in our family. She could be really funny too. We’d get into fights—you borrowed my sweater, you were a bitch about something when I was really upset, sister shit—and she’d come up with these incredible, really mean one-liners, just in the moment, that were so funny I’d have a hard time staying angry because I wanted to laugh so hard. She probably could have become a comedian, if she’d wanted. But I have no idea what . . . what she actually would have wanted.”

“Was there a note?” Grant asks, his voice quiet.

“Not a physical one,” Helen says, and feels strangely grateful for the chance to tell him. “But I always thought if she’d tried to write one, she would have done it on her laptop—she was so obsessed with that thing when she got it. I have her hard drive all backed up, and I’ve looked and I’ve looked but I’ve never found anything.”

“I’m sorry,” Grant murmurs, and she wonders what he’s apologizing for.

“We buried her in the Chinese community section of the cemetery. So she’s spending eternity with all the old grandmas and grandpas and Saturday-morning Chinese school principals who never approved of her. If ghosts exist, she’s probably giving them hell.”

“Do you think you’ll be buried here?” he asks.

It’s a blunt, existential question. One she’s thought of before.

“No,” she says. “I always liked the idea of having my ashes scattered in some significant place. The problem is I’ve never really felt that strongly about anywhere. I like a lot of places, but enough for eternity? Then again, it probably wouldn’t matter. I’m overthinking it, I know.”

“I read somewhere that you can get your remains turned into organic mush and they’ll plant a tree over your body,” Grant says.

It feels macabre to be talking about bodies turning into mush when he feels so warm and solid and alive against her. She drops her head against his waiting shoulder.

“What kind of tree would you be?” Helen asks.

“I don’t know,” he says, and she feels the deep rumble of his voice against her body. “I guess I feel the way you feel about places, with trees.”

Helen lifts her head slightly and studies Grant Shepard from closer up than she ever has before. “I feel like you’d be an oak tree. It’s like the golden retriever of trees.”

Grant laughs, a genuine laugh this time—the sound is jarring in the cemetery. Helen looks out at the view and tries to see a peaceful park instead of a final resting place.

“I haven’t been back here without my parents since the week we buried her,” she says. “I was really mad at her, for a long time. And it’s kind of depressing here.”

“Thanks for bringing me,” he says, and smoothly presses a kiss against the side of her brow.

They’re both quiet then, and for a moment she listens to their synchronized breaths, inhaling and exhaling with the wind.

“It’s not a big deal,” she says finally, and looks away. “We should get going, though, before it gets dark.”

He offers her a hand up and she takes it.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

“A little,” she says, even though she isn’t.

The path is rocky and he touches her elbow lightly as she climbs back up the hill.

“You should come over for dinner,” he says. “There’s always too much food anyway.”

“Would that be okay?” She lifts her brows.

“Yeah,” he says. “Come over.”





Fourteen




Helen types Grant’s address into her car GPS, even though she knows she could get there by memory from years of school-bus routes still mapped in her brain. Eastbound on Route 22, then up the mountain, past Washington Rock, past the cul-de-sac of newly developed (now not-so-new) homes, just after the stop sign on the right.

She rings the doorbell and she can tell by the bright way that Mrs. Shepard greets her, Grant has already told her who to expect.

“It’s so good to have you here,” Lisa (she insists!) says. “Grant’s just washing upstairs. Can I take your coat?”

Helen tries not to gawk at the interior of this old Victorian. It looks vaguely familiar for a place she’s never been—she remembers seeing the lush peacock wallpaper in the drawing room (“aren’t we fancy!”) in the background of photos of parties she never went to, on Facebook. There’s an antique umbrella stand near the front and a cheerful little plaque that reads, “God bless this home with love and happiness.” This is where Grant Shepard comes from.

She washes her hands in the downstairs bathroom and studies herself in the mirror. She’s thankful that she woke up in a mood to accessorize—the black sweater dress is on the casual side, but the gold necklace and earrings save it from being too much of a lazy funeral vibe. She pulls her long hair back into a ponytail with a scrunchie after some debate. Then she texts her parents—