When We Let Go by Delancey Stewart (read with me .txt) 📕

a wry smile. “Seriously? I live in a trailer, can’t finish building a house, work in a diner … What exactly is it about this image that leads you to believe I have myself together?”

I didn’t know if I could explain it to her, and what came out didn’t make as much sense as I’d hoped. “You seem like you live life the way you want to, the kind of person who drives the train.”

“I’ve never driven a train. Plus, I think trains pretty much go where the tracks lead.”

“So maybe that’s not a good metaphor.”

“Says the writer.”

“I told you, I’m rusty.” I dropped her gaze, turning over the question I’d been wanting to ask her. “I want to ask you about something, but if I don’t get dinner started, we’ll never eat.” It could wait, I decided. “Will you keep me company while I cook?”

She followed me toward the kitchen and settled on a stool across the counter from where I stood. “You’ve got me curious,” she said. “What do you want to ask?”

“It’s about the house,” I said. “The property.” I’d been thinking about it, about how the property had been in her family for so long. About what I knew of it from when we were both children—about the memory I had of her from that long-ago summer. I was fairly certain she didn’t remember me, but I knew now that Maddie, or a tiny wild-haired version of her, had been part of a pivotal moment in my life.

“You back in the market?” she asked. “I’m definitely still willing to sell. Maybe it’d be easier if it was you who bought it.”

I looked at her hard. “That property is part of your family, Maddie. Don’t sell it.”

She scoffed and looked sad. “I don’t think I have a choice.”

“I’d like to offer you one.”

“How?”

“Let me make an investment in the house.” It was a little out of left field, I knew, but I hoped she’d consider the idea I’d had earlier today.

“I don’t understand.”

“I’d like to help you develop the house. Get someone in to design something that works on the property and help you get it built before the snow comes.”

Surprise was clear on her face, and she put her glass down abruptly, spilling a bit. “Why would you do that?”

“There are some tax benefits to investing in real estate,” I told her, handing her a paper towel. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to tell her exactly why the property meant so much to me too.

“But wouldn’t you have to buy the property and lease me the house?”

“No. I’d only own the house. You own the land. So you grant me the right to develop it, and I grant you the right to live there rent-free.”

“I don’t see how that helps you much.”

“It’d be a small deduction,” I said. “But every bit helps.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I … we don’t know each other very well, Connor. That seems like a lot to undertake.”

She wasn’t wrong. But I didn’t want to back down. “Maybe,” I said. “I want to help you, Maddie. And I know you’re proud and capable and don’t need it …”

“I probably do need it,” she said. “But that doesn’t make it easy to agree. I just …”

“You don’t trust me.”

Her face changed then, a wary look flashing across it before she swallowed hard. “Should I?”

“Do you have any real reason not to?” I picked up the kitchen knife and began chopping the celery and carrots on the board in front of me. I felt like we were finally going to venture into the territory we’d need to cross if anything real might develop between us.

“I don’t know.” She picked her wine up again, took a sip. “Let’s not talk about the house, though. That’s my problem. I’ll figure it out.”

“I just wanted to throw it out there. Offer stands.” I tried not to let the disappointment I felt show on my face.

I covered by moving efficiently around the kitchen, both of us silent as the awkwardness of the conversation hung in the air between us. As I moved, following the practiced motions I’d learned when I used to cook for my sister and myself, I began to relax a bit. Dave Matthews played in the background, and I found that I liked having Maddie sitting there, watching me with those big amber eyes.

After a few quiet moments she said, “Connor, the police have been around, asking me some questions.”

I wasn’t surprised. “I figured they would come see you soon.”

“They asked about Amanda. And about us.”

“Right.” I couldn’t help stirring a little more furiously at the sauce.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to think,” she said.

I put down the spoon and looked at her. This would be it then. We’d finally get this all out. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Ask me the questions, Maddie. Ask me the things you need to ask. Let’s get this done.” I wanted to answer. I wanted to tell her everything.

“Okay. What happened with Amanda?”

“She asked me for help. She said she wanted to be a writer, wanted to interview me. We met a couple times, in public places. Literally, three times. Twice at the diner.”

“And?”

“And that was it. The next thing I knew—according to people in town and the always-reliable tabloid news, we’d had a full-blown relationship and she had dumped me.” I shook my head and opened my arms wide as I explained, still shocked at how crazy this was. “According to those sources, I became upset about the breakup and took to stalking her. Now it seems I’ve kidnapped and killed her, and buried the body up on the ridge.”

“Did the police come talk to you about that part? The ridge?”

“Yes.”

“Did they tell you there was an eyewitness?”

“They did. They told me there were photographs, too.” Maddie’s eyebrows shot up at this, and a blush crawled across her face. It had been her. A sinking feeling filled me, but I did my best to ignore it as I watched her, silent.

“I was hiking,” she said. “I had my camera, and I heard you digging. I followed the sound, and …”

“And you saw me digging a hole off the trail, and figured I was disposing of some evidence.”

She nodded, and I saw the flicker of guilt cross her face. “I’m sorry, Connor.”

I put down my glass and leaned forward, catching her gaze and doing my best to hold it. “It’s fine. I don’t blame you. I would have called the police too, Maddie. My timing wasn’t good.”

“What were you doing up there?” She whispered.

I turned down the heat on the pot on the stove and then took the stool next to Maddie. “I was actually burying someone, just not the way you thought. My sister.” I stared into the fire and decided to tell her everything. If I wanted her to trust me, to believe in me, I needed to share things I didn’t share with other people, and I could start here. “This was supposed to be her house. I had it built for her. This was her favorite place in the world—the happiest place we spent time as kids. And I wanted to give that back to her. She … We … didn’t have a very joyful childhood.”

I stopped talking to take a deep breath, preparing myself to say the next words.

“I brought her up here to show her the house for the first time, to tell her it was hers. That’s when she told me she was dying. Stage four ovarian cancer. She’d been diagnosed just before I started the house, and had kept it from me.”

“Connor …” Maddie’s voice was a whisper.

“She told me she wanted to die up here. No doctors, no tubes or machines. So that’s what happened.”

“Oh.” She reached tentatively across the space between us and put her hand on mine, wrapping her slim cool fingers around my hand and squeezing gently. “I’m so sorry.”

I couldn’t help staring at her hand on mine for a long second, pulling comfort and warmth from it. How long had it been since anyone had touched me? I couldn’t honestly remember. “I had her cremated. That was what she wanted. And she told me to dig a hole and bury her up there on the ridge. We stacked rocks so I’d know exactly where she wanted it. That was the last time she’d been able to hike, before things got really bad.”

“I’ve seen that stack,” Maddie said. “I wondered who put it there.”

“I did,” I told her. “But I had a very demanding director.”

We were both silent for a minute, she took her hand back, a chill creeping into my palm where it had been.

“But I couldn’t do it then,” I said, looking up at her. “I wasn’t ready.”

“So you did it today.”

“I did. I went up there a year ago to do it, and I couldn’t. She was the only person I had in the world, and even having ashes here felt better than taking her out there and leaving her. For a year I let her sit here with me, keeping me company.” I shrugged, feeling a little silly. “I talked to her. And I didn’t want to give that up. I kept her here even though it wasn’t what she would have wanted. I kept her. Out of pure selfishness. Or weakness.”