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If Kelley’s honest with herself, she would admit she knew what she was looking for before she found it.
She’s been a guest in Heather O’Reilly’s home often enough that she knows exactly where the kitchen scissors are, and they aren’t in the junk drawer. She’s also been to her house enough to know that HAO is meticulous about her decor, at least when guests are coming. The gaping hole in the middle of the family photos and fingerpaint art and neighborhood event calendars isn’t planned. In the back of her mind, Kelley can see HAO running back inside to grab something after finally getting the baby in her car seat, catching a glimpse of the fridge, and stashing the offending material away before Kelley got there.
Still, knowing what she’s going to find before she finds it doesn’t stop the breath from catching in Kelley’s throat when she sees the loopy cursive embossed in silver over an image of two impossibly beautiful people grinning at each other in the middle of a field.
“Save the Date,” the postcard reads, and Kelley is suddenly painfully aware of the countdown she didn’t even know was still running in the back of her mind. “December 31, 2014.” Kelley can’t bring her eyes down to the names at the bottom, not without seeing that stupid picture again in full detail.
“Kelley,” HAO says quietly from the doorway.
“It’s fine,” Kelley says, closing the drawer. “I was just looking for the scissors.”
HAO grabs them from the back of the wooden knife block near the sink. “They haven’t moved.”
Kelley sighs. “You shouldn’t have hidden it.”
“I wanted to have a nice weekend with my friend.”
“We will,” Kelley insists.
“No, we won’t,” HAO says. “You look like a completely different person than you did when we were in the playroom opening Ella’s new—far too expensive, by the way—playhouse.”
“I’m back,” Kelley says, plastering a smile on her face as if she doesn’t still want to throw up.
HAO pretends to believe her.
~
When she’s in bed that night, after reading HAO’s 1-year-old daughter, Ella, almost every book on her shelf, the silence she thought she yearned for suddenly feels overwhelming. As she feels the house settle around her, Kelley’s thumb keeps reaching for the “search” button on Instagram. But like a good recovering addict, she refrains and deletes the app instead.
A small knock on the door interrupts her racing thoughts. “Can I come in?”
“Yeah,” Kelley says, sitting up.
HAO crawls into the bed beside her. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Okay.”
HAO doesn’t move. Kelley doesn’t breathe deeper than a steady inhale through her nose and right back out. When she closes her eyes, she can almost trick herself into thinking the weight on the other side of the bed feels the same as the girl on the postcard sleeping soundly beside her.