Page 8 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Mountain Man

Her last text asked me to come home soon. I didn't see it until she was already gone.

Sending it feels like pulling stitches out of a wound that never closed properly. Raw, necessary, relieving in a way that makes my eyes burn.

Mara's response comes in one minute. No hesitation. No careful hedging.

I'm so sorry, Holden. I'm so sorry she was alone. I'm so sorry you carry that.

I don't want to fix it. I just want you to know that I'm here. At midnight. On the other end of this phone. And I'm not going anywhere.

Something cracks. Quiet, internal. A fissure in the wall I've been living behind since the morning I found Annika's body. One small crack, letting in light I haven't felt since a stranger texted me about a golden retriever named Mango.

Mara?

Yeah?

Pounded yam and egusi soup.

What?

The one meal I'd eat forever. My mom's recipe. She makes it at Christmas.

A beat. Then:

Come on, Holden. You're gonna make me cry on my garage floor AGAIN.

Go to sleep, Mara.

You first.

For the first time in five years, I do. The phone stays on the nightstand. Face up. Mara's name at the top of the screen.

Above Annika's.

I notice that too.

And I let it stay.

CHAPTER FOUR

MARA

The dinner that breaks me is a Tuesday.

My mother's dining room. Good china because Auntie Bisi is visiting from London. Jollof rice, fried plantains, pepper soup, egusi. My sisters are there. Nkechi, pregnant with number three, glowing, her husband David rubbing her back while she eats. Adaeze, the eldest, surgeon like our mother, already discussing which prep school her twins should attend.

And me. Sitting at the far end of the table in a sundress I bought at a thrift shop, beeswax under my fingernails that no amount of scrubbing removes, drinking palm wine while my aunt asks about Tunde.

"Such a good boy, that Oladipo family. Excellent stock. You know his younger brother just made consultant at Mount Sinai?" Auntie Bisi clicks her tongue. "Imara, when are you going to stop playing with wax and find another one like him?"

My mother doesn't correct her. Doesn't say Imara runs her own business or Imara's candles are in five boutiques now or even Imara is doing fine. She just passes the plantains.

Nkechi catches my eye across the table. Mouths sorry. But sorry doesn't undo thirty two years of being the daughter whocan't get it right. Sorry doesn't fill the silence where my mother's pride should be.

After dinner, clearing plates in the kitchen, my mother corners me by the sink.

"Tunde's sister's wedding is in three weeks. She called me again today. She wants you there."

"Mama, I'm not going to my ex fiancé's sister's wedding."