Page 118 of The Fall Classic

“I’m busy, Dad. Managing the truck is a lot. I don’t think you guys understand how much devotion it takes.”

Dad keeps his eyes on mine. “I meant today. It’s been twelve years since your mom passed.”

I almost drop to my knees.

It’s already the ninth? My eyes fly to the little The Far Side tear-off calendar I keep by register, a gift from Alma.

It is. It’s September ninth. My mom has been dead for twelve years.

And I forgot.

“I know how much you miss her,” Dad’s saying, but it’s like he’s saying it from another room. His words don’t sound right. “I miss her, too.”

“I believe you,” I say.

His brow screws up as he looks at me. “Was there ever any doubt?”

I shake my head, not wanting to look him in the eye. He doesn’t feel things like I do, like my mom did. He doesn’t love the way he should.

But at least he remembered what today is.

“No, Dad. I just miss her.”

“It’s hard. Marlowe’s always on edge on the anniversary. I think she knows your mom was my first love and I’ll never get over losing her. She doesn’t understand how it’s possible that I could love them both.”

He reaches up to the counter to grab my hand, and I let him. If I could feel anything, I wonder if it would be nice.

The whole time I’ve been talking to my dad and Marlowe, Liv has been cleaning the last rush and getting things ready for the next one. It’s a tender mercy that no customers have come in the last ten minutes. She passes by me to grab and wipe down a counter, and she gives me a small smile of solidarity.

At my mom’s funeral, Alma said there’s power in grieving with those who grieve, and the best way to do it is to simply be there, arms and heart wide open, mouth firmly shut.

Liv is good at that.

Alma isn’t. She’s never kept her mouth that firmly shut, but she’s been there, and for the last twelve years, I’ve thought maybe that was all I’d ever get.

Logan actually made me think I might get everything I could dream of and more, and I don’t know if I’ll ever get over that.

But Liv and Alma—that’s something.

My dad and Marlowe leave without fanfare, and Liv and I finish our shift in silence.

A bit after three, we’re on the ten-minute drive back to Mullet Ridge from Sugar Maple.

We have the windows open, and the air has the crisp smell of peanut vines curing in the next field over, sharper than it was even yesterday.

“I’m sorry,” Liv says looking forward at the road. “What a crappy day. It’s the anniversary of your mom’s passing. Your dad and stepmom are such tools. Logan’s ghosting you out of nowhere, no explanation. That’s a lot, Georgie. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” I say. The filter I’ve relied on to hold back my emotions broke when Logan left and my dad came into town, and because Liv has already seen the raw, unfiltered version of me, it feels like too much work to repair the filter. “I can’t believe my dad remembered today and I didn’t. I think about my mom every day. I miss her constantly. My whole life is practically a shrine to her memory, and he’s the one who remembered? The man who could never be bothered to stick around for the hard parts?” I shake my head, but it’s more like a dozen tiny shakes that I’m powerless to stop. “And Logan. Why is he freezing me out? What is it about me that’s so unlovable? Why am I never enough for people?”

“You’re asking the wrong question,” Liv says.

“Pardon?” I ask.

“Asking why you’re never enough for anyone else is the wrong question. You’re making their failings about you.”

“Oh.” A grain silo passes on the right before the landscape returns to fences and fields.

“Sorry,” Liv says. “You probably wanted one of those rant sessions girls have on TV where the one girl goes off and the other girl validates everything she says. I’ve never had friends like that, so I don’t know how to do it.”