Allyson In Between ✔︎

Chapter Twenty-Four

| photo by Pixabay from Pexels |

Lindsay bursts out of the front door as Dad and I are climbing out of his truck. Her hair is tucked under an old Tar Heels baseball cap and there's a whitish smear of...

"It's paint," she says, when she's close enough for me to touch the spot on her cheek. "Mom is in the garage washing out the brushes," she adds, glancing at Dad. Then she takes a hesitant step toward me, arms hovering, like she wants to hug me but she's not sure it's allowed.

I answer by wrapping her in a tight squeeze. "What were you painting?" I ask. Sort of wishing I had X-ray vision so I could see Mom through the garage door. Because the question I really want to ask is how can she be like, redecorating the house or whatever at a time like this—when our entire family is falling apart?

My sister wiggles out of my arms. "Come with me and I'll show you," she says, grabbing my hand. Her spark of enthusiasm stalls when she focuses on Dad—and her vulnerability is obvious. She's not just asking if it's okay to take me inside. She wants to know if he still loves her, now that he knows what Mom knows.

But Dad only gets the first part of her unspoken question. He gives her a solemn nod, and points to the garage. Meaning he's going to find Mom. Lindsay straightens her spine, resurrects her zombie mask and tugs my arm, practically dragging me up the sidewalk and into our house.

The almost sweet, chemical smell lingering in the foyer is paint. Obviously. It gets stronger as we climb the staircase. "Mom started on your room as soon as you left this morning," she says, hanging back to let me go in first.

The purple is gone. Mostly. There are still shadows of it peeking through the white paint. Especially on the wall adjacent to the bookshelves. Which are empty. So is the closet. And all the clutter has been cleared off the dresser. There's nothing left of the Allyson I was.

"This is just primer," Lindsay says. She's still standing the doorway and her voice is quivery. I'm pretty sure she didn't bring me up here to show me a room covered in ghostly paint—not really. But there are so many things we need to talk about, and I'm just...so...overwhelmed. I don't know how or where to start.

"You get to pick the new color," she says. Because apparently she doesn't either. "Mom thought it would be nice for you to have a blank canvas."

"But there were things in here I liked." An uncomfortable flutter grows in my chest as I check each of the window alcoves. "There was something in here I really want."

"It's all out there," she says, pointing to the hallway. Which is lined with open boxes.

I walked right past them.

My three-legged stool is sitting on top of the biggest one. I give Lindsay a sideways glance on my way to retrieve it.

"Oh my god, Ally. Do you even know where that thing came from?"

She's pointing—with a definite smirk—at my favorite artifact. Which I am now hugging. "I don't care," I say, defensive. "I like it."

"Yeah, I can tell."

"I like the books, too," I say, embarrassed now. "And the twinkle lights that were on the headboard."

"Ally, Dodge gave that to you," she says. Meaning the stool. "He actually made it himself. Specifically for you."

I know it's true. Instantly, because Noah told me he was drawing a stool that day in French after I made the first move. It was something he was going to build in his dad's workshop. That part—the fact that Noah is the kind of guy who can make some amazing thing out of scraps of wood—didn't register when he told me his side of the day-we-met story.