Her brother Matt was home when she came out, while Patrick was not, and sometimes she thought this explained the difference. Other times, she wondered if Pat’s three years on Matt actually amounted to a generational separation on this issue. When Patrick, the primogeniture, became an adult in the late nineties, he hadn’t known a single gay person (probably because they were all still in the closet). Then again, Matt had always been the family hellion—drinking and sneaking off with girls from the time he was in eighth grade—whereas Patrick and Becky actually had waited until their wedding night.
“I want you to take a look at this,” he said, sliding the pamphlet across the kitchen table. It had a picture of a man and woman on a hike, holding each other’s waists, staring into each other’s eyes with the stupid smiles pamphlet people give each other to demonstrate true commitment. “Just look it over.”
Both of her brothers inherited what Lisa called Mr. Moore’s “Squaryan” looks: tall, chiseled, boringly handsome. Pat hadn’t changed his haircut since he was ten: a helmet of stiffly gelled hair combed to the side. Fatherhood never softened his physique. Like Stacey, he was tall, athletic, and he still worked out, according to Becky, every day. He had virile, vein-bulging arms and looked impossibly hale and healthy. For some reason this made Stacey’s surety flutter. Like, Look at him. Maybe I have strayed. And she felt her ancient fear of how long eternity could be.
“All you need to know for now, though, is that you’re my sister and I love you.” He beamed that resentment-incinerating smile. Then he leaned over and hugged her fiercely. These “recommendations” of Pat’s had always been their secret. She had never told her parents about any of it.
“Stacey. Thank you thank you thank you so much for coming.”
Before Stacey realized what she intended, Lisa’s mother was hugging her, smelling like a room after it’s doused in cleaning products and scrubbed. She received the embrace awkwardly, tried not to reciprocate, but found herself unable to be rude enough to pull away. This woman she hadn’t stopped dreaming about for nearly a decade.
“Would you like something?” Bethany asked as they sat.
“I’ll just have a Diet Pepsi. I still have an hour to Worthington after this.”
“That’s where your parents are now?”
“Yes.”
“And how about your brothers? I see Patrick sometimes.”
This was what she wanted least: to play catch-up like they were old friends.
“Patrick, Becky, and the girls are still here, and Pat just got a promotion at Jeld-Wen. Matt’s in Columbus. He teaches high school PE and coaches the baseball team.”
“That’s wonderful. And you’re back in school at Michigan?”
Bethany looked old, and even though it had been almost a decade since Stacey had seen her, this aging went beyond time’s standard punishment. This was more than just ignoring the Revlon eye cream. She’d gained weight that stretched at her emerald blouse and the high waistband of her jeans. Her makeup cracked around wrinkles that had spread deep into her face. The droop beneath her chin waddled when she spoke. The flesh around her eyes was tumid, swollen as if from the scrape of tears. Her hair, the same highlighted, immobile bowl from high school, was the only part of her that seemed unchanged, and therefore it stood out. It looked like a wig.
“Yeah, for a doctorate in literature if everything works out.”
“You couldn’t go to OSU like a good Buckeye.” She grinned. Stacey didn’t respond, in no mood to fake like she cared for the ridiculous small talk people milk from a college sports rivalry.
“How are your parents?”
Working the zipper of her left boot up and down, feeling the satisfying click of the teeth, eased her pulse.
“They’re fine. Dad’s happy at the new job and Mom’s back working a few days a week for an accounting office.” In truth, her father had not been happy when Buckeye Mulch closed its New Canaan location, and he settled for a transfer that paid nearly fifteen thousand dollars less. Her mom had to go back to work, and he did not expect to retire for at least another ten years, but what was the point of bringing this up.
The waitress came, and she put in her Diet Pepsi order. It was a Coke establishment, so she settled. Bethany ordered non-caffeinated tea with lemon.
“What were you doing before Michigan?”
“I worked overseas for a long time. First, I was in Croatia teaching English, then I took a year to travel around Europe.”
“Oh wow.”
“After that I moved to Ecuador to do the same. Then when I got my acceptance letter from Michigan I spent six months traveling around South America.”
Bethany smiled and nodded along. Stacey savored revealing how much she’d seen and done while this woman grew old in the same town where she was born.
“That’s wonderful. That sounds really wonderful. And you got a tattoo.” She pointed to Stacey’s forearm. “What’s it mean?”
“It’s from a poem.”
“Oh.”
The waitress brought her Diet Coke and Bethany’s tea. When she left, Bethany sipped, delicately replaced the cup in the saucer, folded her hands, and said, “I suppose you want to know why I asked you here.”
She waited, arms crossed.
“First, I just wanted to say that…” She fidgeted with the straw in her water. “I don’t want to drag up old things. We don’t need to talk about old things. But I do want to say I’m sorry for all that happened with you and Lisa back then.”
“You’re sorry for what happened between us?” Her heart quickened, and her blood felt thick and fast. She heard Patrick saying, Hell is real, Stacey. Followed by the phantom scent of his Pine-Sol–smelling cologne. “Or you’re sorry for what you did? How you acted.”
Bethany closed her eyes for a long moment, as if in prayer. When she opened them, she said, “I’m sorry for the way I behaved. Like I said, I do not want to drag up old things. But yes, you girls didn’t deserve… the way I reacted to everything. Those old things, though—that’s water gone under the bridge.”
She wanted her to call them old things one more time, so she could summon a satisfying fury.
“Fine. Water under the bridge. Apology accepted. Glad we cleared all that up. Now we can just be some gal pals gabbing at Vicky’s, I guess? Great.”
She hated how she sounded, shrill and emotional and vicious, but after nearly ten years, there was a speech much more cruel trying to clamor up out of her from some dark hole, reaching for daylight. It was all she could do to keep this from metastasizing into a wail of accusations and tears.
Bethany gnawed a fingernail. She could see the ragged cuticle and all the tiny, nibbled wounds. The highways of blue and purple veins on her hand.
“And I’m sorry. I am. I’ve had so much time to think, Stacey. You don’t know how much I’ve prayed about this. Years and years. I know the way I reacted—I know you girls weren’t—I got this from her last month.”
As if just recalling it, she reached for her purse and pulled out a postcard, the corners worn from handling. Stacey stopped playing with her boot’s zipper and took it from her. A picture of a gondola-like boat docked in front of temples with tiers like birthday cakes and sharp, needlelike spires rising into mauve twilight. She flipped it over and immediately recognized Lisa’s looping cursive scrawl. Her handwriting rang of who she was: wild, unpredictable, devil-may-care letters.
“It’s why I wanted to see you. She doesn’t write much. But enough that I know she hasn’t given up on me. And now at least I know where she is. I know I haven’t done everything I can to say I’m sorry. To get her to come home.”