Page 4 of Grim

I watch the beads of rain race each other down the glass, tracking them like constellations I’ll never name.

Each street we turn down carries its own memory—festivals, open mics, ghost tours, bookstore signings I was too tired to attend.

Places I said, “I’ll go next time.” But time is a shrinking thing now.

It used to stretch before me like a runway, but now it folds inward like origami.

Still, I love this place. I love the crooked windows and patina and all the wrought iron. I love the scent of jasmine in the rain and the way even the cemeteries here feel strangely alive.

It’s beautiful in that noble way that old things are beautiful—in their resiliency, the effortless way in which they still stand. Still try.

Kind of like me.

I press my forehead to the cool glass and let the world blur, everything softened by the downpour and my own fraying focus. The fog on the window blooms beneath my breath.

This town has always felt like a prelude. A half chapter before the story cuts off. I don’t get the next act. Not really. Not the one with road trips, promotions, or heartbreaks that take years to recover from.

And I’m not bitter about that. Not exactly. I’ve made my peace with the horizon.

But sometimes, when I let myself think too long, I ache for a version of me that never got to be .

I don’t need statues. I don’t need my name etched in gold. But I want someone to read my words one day and pause. Just for a moment. And think, She was here.

I close my eyes and whisper to the rain, “Let that be enough.”

It takes a little over an hour before the car slows in front of my house. Porch light still burned out. The mailbox leaning. My home. My graveyard of unread books and unfinished stories.

I open my creaky door with all the subtlety of a haunted house attraction. I wince and slip off my shoes, inching past the umbrella stand and coat rack with the delicacy of a cat burglar.

My goal: get past the kitchen undetected, avoid cold canned soup, and bypass a mom-ologue until she leaves for the airport and goes back to her loft in Chicago for another art exhibit.

I pause my ninja-like movements when I hear the family grandfather clock begin its hourly intoning. After six dull strokes, the silence is filled by her voice in the kitchen.

“No, she’s just been so tired lately.” I hear her padding around in the kitchen, putting dishes away. “I know it’s expected,” she continues, “but that doesn’t make it easier to watch. She keeps pretending it’s fine, and I keep pretending I believe her.”

There’s a beat of silence, followed by a brittle laugh.

“Yes, I know it’s her choice. I know. But some days, I just want to shake her pretty face and say, Stop being so damn stubborn and come back home with me .”

My stomach twists. My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag as I lean against the wall and close my eyes.

Ugh, Mom.

She sounds like someone who’s trying not to drown while being stuck in the middle of the ocean.

She’s been begging me for two years to move to Chicago with her permanently.

I can’t leave this home though. I won’t.

Always the stubborn one, she stated she would move here then.

That idea lasted a week, and we were at each other’s throats.

My mom needs the busy city, the high fashion, the eccentric art scene.

She needs skyscrapers, concrete, and stainless steel.

I like … well, I like chess with GG, book club with Selma, and the cobblestones.

Still, I love my mom dearly, so I square my shoulders and do what any emotionally unstable, terminally ill twenty-six-year-old would do in this moment of quiet vulnerability.

I drop my bag, lie flat on the living room rug, and fold my arms over my chest in what I consider to be excellent corpse formation.

Mom rounds the corner thirty seconds later and gasps like she’s discovered a body.

“Rue! What on Earth—don’t do that!” she shrieks, pressing a hand to her heart like I shaved five years off her life. “Honestly, darling, it’s so morbid.”

I crack one eye open. “You should probably see someone about those lines once you get back home,” I state dryly as she rears back, turns to the mirror hanging by the door, and begins to pull her face taut.

She gasps again—genuinely scandalized—still tugging at her temples like she’s trying to reverse time. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying”—I keep my tone bored and flippant, which only fuels her annoyance—“you’re already behind in the race. Let’s not throw in the towel completely.”

She glares at me, and I give her a smirk before sticking out my tongue.

“You are an insufferable child,” she mutters, turning fully toward me, causing her ridiculous number of bracelets to clink together, sounding like a one-woman percussion section.

“And yet here you are. Still visiting. Must be the charm.” I wink, causing her to roll her hazel eyes.

She releases a sigh. It’s classic Cerulean—over the top, theatrical, and dramatic.

“I’ll have you know, these”—she gestures to her face—“are your fault. ”

I sit up slowly; there’s an odd pain in my chest, but I ignore it, keeping my smirk intact. “Really? I always assumed they were from that yoga retreat where you ‘found yourself’ as well as a third-degree sunburn.”

“Rue.” Her voice drops to a deadly octave. “We do not speak of Arizona.”

“Oops.”

She swats at me, laughing, and it hits me—how much I miss this. The noise and the nonsense, the joking and smiles. Now I’m left with these small rays, followed by the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention. Like she’s trying to memorize every detail in case it’s the last time.

I know the look. Because I give it to myself in the mirror more often than I care to admit.

She crouches beside me, smoothing stray pieces of orange-and-black hair behind my ear. “It’s bad enough I’ll have to see you this way one day far too soon. Let’s not do the dress rehearsal.”

“I’m just figuring out the best arm placement,” I mumble, feigning nonchalance. “Over the chest seems a bit judgy, like I’m eternally disappointed about something.”

She snorts. “You’re right. Maybe this.” She flips up both middle fingers in a neat double salute.

I cackle. “Mom, can you imagine the funeral?”

“I insist. If I have to live through that unimaginable day, I’m getting some artistic input.”

“You’ll be too busy cashing in on my ghost to worry about my corpse pose.”

She clasps her hands to her chest. “You wound me.”

“Ha! You exploit me.”

She pulls me into a careful hug—tight enough to feel like something, gentle enough not to hurt.

“I love you, Rue,” she whispers into my hair.

I freeze, just for a moment. Rarely do Mom and I say that we love each other, not because we don’t. It has just never been our dynamic. That was something Dad and I shared.

I smile. “Feelings make you wrinkle. Careful.”

She pulls back with a watery laugh, and the pain behind her eyes nearly knocks me over. “You are incorrigible.”

“I love you too, Mom.”

She checks her phone. Her ride’s here. I escort her to the door.

She pauses, and the look on her face is almost one of fear. “I could stay.”

“And miss your exhibit? What would the community think?” I smirk playfully.

“Fuck them.” Her words catch me off guard. “Tell me to stay, Rue.”

It’s not a demand; it’s nearly a plea. One I can’t answer because if I look at her and tell her that my heart is racing like a hummingbird’s wings and my literal bones ache, she would stay, and her memories would be forever tainted with the pain I endured every day.

No, that’s not the story I want her to tell.

I won’t allow it. I just need a couple of weeks to relax in bed, and then she can come back.

“Mom, go,” I insist. “Go mingle and let everyone be dazzled by the great Cerulean Oaks. I’ll be here.”

“You’ll text me?” she urges, ignoring the driver honking his horn.

“I always do.”

“And you’ll eat?”

“Yes. Probably not that soup though.”

She exhales before leaning in and giving me a brief hug. Pulling back, she looks at my hair as she shakes her head. “You and your crazy colors. It looks like a pumpkin vomited.”

“Bold words, coming from the woman who once paid how much to glue faux fur on a canvas and called it a ‘critique on contemporary mores.’”

We share a laugh before the driver honks again.

“Rue,” her voice cracks softly. “You know that I…well—”

Giving her my best smile, I wave with both my hands. “I know. Go. Before your driver leaves and you’re stuck haunting me . ”

She grins. “Don’t tempt me,” she calls back as the door clicks shut behind her.

And I drop my smile .

Just like that, the act is over. No audience, no reason to pretend. I wrap my arms around myself as I sit on the couch, staring at the blank TV screen.

She’s scared. I know that.

So am I.