Chapter 31 31

Chapter 31 31
I couldn’t pack.

Thursday night, I just stood in front of the tiny wardrobe, my bag lying open on the bed, and stared at my clothes. No matter what I picked up, I couldn’t settle on anything. Which was ridiculous. I’d packed my whole life in under an hour not that long ago. A few days in Portugal shouldn’t trip me up.

But my hands kept hesitating.

I’d pull out a dress, then toss it back. Fold a shirt, unfold it. Ashes sat in the middle of the bed, watching me with that patient look cats get when they’re waiting for you to realize you’re doing something pointless. I told him to stop staring, but he just blinked at me slowly and kept right on.

Honestly, the packing wasn’t the problem. The real problem was this heavy, impossible thing in my chest: My mother might be alive. I’d been telling myself that for two days and it still didn’t make sense—like I’d wandered into someone else’s life, not mine. Not the life of a woman who, six months ago, was sprawled on the bathroom floor with gastritis and an eviction notice taped to her door.

Eventually, I just sat on the edge of the bed and stared at my open bag. Then, without really thinking it through, I got up, pulled my mother’s photograph from the drawer, and put it in the bag. If she was there, I wanted her to see I had it. And if she wasn’t, I wanted it with me anyway. I zipped the bag before I could change my mind, shoved it over by the door.

James called at nine. He said he’d packed and unpacked twice already and kept feeling like he was forgetting something. I told him I thought that was just how this kind of thing felt, and he laughed—that easy, relaxed way he does, and I’m still not quite used to it. We talked for twenty minutes, just comfortably, not bothering to fill up every silence, which is more than I can say for most people I’ve known for years. He asked how I was handling everything, and I told him straight up that I didn’t really know yet. I’d figure it out once I got there. He just said, yeah, me too. And that was enough.

After I hung up, I thought about calling Frederick. But I didn’t. We’d said enough. We were meeting at the airport at seven, and all the stuff that still needed sorting could sit tight until after. There was already too much weighing on me.

I set my alarm for five, climbed into bed, and lay there in the dark thinking about a woman living somewhere in Portugal, maybe keeping a photo of me tucked away in a drawer—just like I’d kept one of her. At some point, without intending to, I finally fell asleep.
I woke up at five, no alarm needed. Got dressed in the dark, tiptoeing so I didn’t wake Ashes, which was tricky because he always seemed to sense when I was about to leave. Rosa agreed to check in on him—she made it sound like she was doing me a huge favor, but then she peppered me with questions about his feeding schedule. I could tell she was actually happy about it.

Bag in hand, I glanced around the apartment one last time. Lights off, I headed downstairs. The city at five thirty felt stripped down—quiet, honest, like you could see its skeleton before the day filled in. A delivery van parked on the corner. A woman walked a dog, neither of them in a hurry. The sky was starting to think about getting lighter. My phone buzzed.

Frederick: I'm outside.

His car waited at the curb with the engine running. He was leaning against the door, holding two paper cups from the bakery. He held one out to me, and I took it without saying a word. At that hour, silence made sense.

Twenty minutes later, we picked up James. He stepped out with a bag, slipped into the back seat, and glanced at us in the front. Didn’t comment on whatever vibe he picked up between Frederick and me, which made me realize he was both smart and tactful. Exactly what I needed.

The airport was already bustling. We did check-in, security, that long hike to the gate, moving fast—as if we’d made up our minds and nothing else mattered. Frederick stayed close but let me breathe, while James hovered on my other side. When someone shoved past me in the crowd, James steadied me with a brief hand on my shoulder, and something inside me settled.

I had a brother.

Portugal could bring anything, or nothing, but James was real. He was there, messy hair, sharp instincts, and our mother’s eyes.

On the plane, I sat between them. The city shrank beneath us, swallowed by clouds. I pressed my hand to my knee and tried to breathe easy, thinking about a photo on a mantelpiece in a house miles away—the real start of all this.

James was out cold twenty minutes in. Lucky guy.

Frederick stayed awake, staring out the window. Then he looked at me and said, quiet enough that it was just for me, "Whatever we find. I'll be right there."

I met his gaze.

"I know," I said.

And, despite everything, I really did mean it.