Page 19

No Pressure

Seventeen Years Old, Tennessee

After a few days spent attempting to process the CVU acceptance letter that’s landed in my inbox, I come downstairs on Christmas Eve to find my parents working on our latest puzzle, an idyllic winter scene, as they FaceTime with Bernie, Connor, and the twins. I hang back, listening as Norah and Mae chatter about the holiday program their class put on; their parents confirm its adorableness.

“Your mama sent pictures,” Mom tells the twins. “Will you sing us one of the songs you learned?”

Mae breaks into a lisped version of “Silent Night” while Norah tucks herself under Bernie’s arm, content to let her sister take the spotlight. They look so much like their brother. It must be torture, sometimes, for Connor and Bernie to see Beck in the girls’ tawny freckles, in their dimpled grins, in Mae’s exuberance, in Norah’s starry-eyed scheming.

I miss them almost as much as I miss him.

I shift, and the floor creaks under my feet.

My parents turn. Mom waves me over, gesturing to the iPad and then the puzzle. Dad gives me an encouraging smile.

Though Bernie and I are now halfway through the first season of Gossip Girl and text about it regularly, we haven’t communicated about anything significant, and we haven’t yet spoken on the phone. That feels like opening a box that can’t be resealed.

I shake my head, then turn and trot up the stairs.

In my room, I shoulder a moment of regret, having shunned the Byrnes once again.

Later, the clatter of measuring cups and the whir of Mom’s stand mixer filter upstairs. Every year, she preps homemade cinnamon rolls that spend all night in the fridge, then rise in the warm oven as we open gifts, filling the house with their yeasty scent. Traditionally we’ve eaten them, gooey and sweet, as midday brunch, after presents and showers, before naps and Merry Christmas phone calls to Grandma and the Byrnes.

Last year there were no cinnamon rolls.

I’m on my feet, ready to brandish a rolling pin, when my phone begins to ring. I pull it from its charger, expecting Paloma, though she texted this morning to tell me she was on her way to her tío and tía’s house to help make tamales.

It’s Bernie.

I answer. I don’t know why, but I do.

“Girlie, hi,” she says, breathless. “I wasn’t sure you’d pick up.”

Beck would be crushed by the way I’ve cold-shouldered his family. If our fates had been reversed, if I’d left him behind, he would’ve put his needs aside. He would’ve stepped up for my parents. He was generous. Selfless. Extraordinarily kind.

I squeeze my eyes closed, barricading a rush of humiliated tears.

“Lia,” Bernie says, fracturing what’s become an uncomfortable silence. “I’ve got news. Big news that I wanted you to hear from me… Connor’s decided to retire.”

I’m stunned. Connor and my dad have both served more than twenty years. While Dad’s talked occasionally about off-ramping, Connor used to joke that Uncle Sam would have to pry his dog tags from his cold, dead fingers.

“I can’t believe it,” I tell Bernie.

“Sometimes I can’t either. But he’s ready. He gave up a lot of time with Beck. He wants it to be different with Norah and Mae. He’s going to teach high school history.” I hear a smile in her voice when she adds, “Believe it or not, he’s excited about getting back into the classroom.”

“Wow,” I say, sitting on my bed, curling my legs beneath me. “He’ll be an amazing teacher. Where will you live?”

“We’ll stay in Virginia.” Her voice goes wistfully soft as she says, “Beck’s here.”

Of course. He’ll spend eternity at a small cemetery in Alexandria.

“I have an invitation I hope you’ll consider,” Bernie says. “No pressure, though.”

“Okay,” I say, though I’m already on edge. People only say no pressure to help themselves feel better about making a pressure-backed request.

“Your mama and daddy are planning to visit for a few days in March, for Connor’s retirement ceremony. It’ll be during your spring break. We’d be thrilled if you’d come too.”

Okay, no .

I’d like to support Connor and, more and more, I think I could handle seeing him, Norah, Mae, and Bernie. But I can’t go back to Rosebell. Beck’s spirit lingers on its streets. In Arlington’s restaurants. At the Tidal Basin. Within the walls of the Byrnes’ house.

Maybe memories of my time in Virginia with Beck should comfort me.

They shred me.

“Please think about it,” Bernie says, putting chinks of indecision in my armor. “There’s a place for you at the ceremony, and a place for you in our lives. Always.”