“She begged to say goodbye.”
“For her?” I asked. “Or for me?”
“Both.”
“You let me stand there feeling insane, Morgan.”
“I thought if I told you first, you would never watch it.”
“Maybe I deserved that choice.”
“You did,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
I wanted to hang up. Instead, I forced myself to breathe.
“Pick me up in the morning.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You want me to come? Really?”
“I want the truth from someone who isn’t dead and apologizing through a television. You can drive me to Willow House. After that, you can explain exactly how my best friend ended up standing between me and my own marriage.”
Willow House was a wide brick home with blue shutters, muddy bikes by the porch, and paper suns in the windows.
Inside, it smelled like buttered toast and floor cleaner.
Melissa met us near the office, wearing a navy cardigan. She had gray in her curls and a calm face I wanted to trust and resent at the same time.
“I want the truth.”
“You must be Camille,” she said.
I stiffened. “Apparently, everyone knows me.”
“No,” Melissa said gently. “Atlas talked about you. This is different.”
“Then talk to me,” I said. “No soft version. No protecting my heart. Tell me everything.”
She led me into a small reading room. An armchair sat by the window. A chessboard waited on the table. Beside it was a mug that read “World’s Okayest Volunteer.”
“Atlas talked about you. This is different.”
Atlas would have loved that stupid mug.
“That was his chair,” Melissa said. “Every Sunday, Matilda saved it for him.”
I touched the back of Atlas’s chair. “He came every Sunday?”
“Every Sunday,” Melissa said. “Storms, holidays, even after treatments. Once, he had a fever, and I threatened to call you myself.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because he begged me not to.”
“He came every Sunday?”
My anger sharpened. “Everyone keeps saying that like my heart was a vase on a shelf.”
Melissa nodded. “I never thought it was fair to you.”
A small voice came from the doorway.
“Mrs. Camille?”
Matilda stood there with her backpack zipped tight.
I crouched. “Hi, Matilda.”
She studied me. “Are you still angry?”
My anger sharpened.
“Yes,” I confessed. “But not at you, sweetheart.”
“Mr. Atlas said you alphabetize your spice jars.”
I laughed through the ache.
“I do,” I said. “And he was always messing them up.”
Before Matilda could say anything, Melissa touched my shoulder. “Camille, if you choose to be part of Matilda’s life, we do it properly. Background checks, home visits, court approval. Nothing happens because Atlas asked nicely from a tape.”
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