33

THERE ARE CERTAIN THINGS you need to do yourself. Yes, this was my parents’ house. And yes, our relationship had improved in recent months. But I was dealing with my childhood bedroom closet. Alone.

“Are you sure I can’t help you, Payton?”

Mom’s question stopped me halfway up the stairs —almost to the room Pepper and I had shared for so many years. As I half turned to face her, I gripped the wooden rail, bracing myself against the eager tone in Mom’s voice. “I’m good. Honestly, I’d rather do this by myself.”

“Do you need any boxes? Markers?”

“No. I brought some clear plastic containers.” I motioned toward the hallway, where they waited outside the room, my letter jacket resting in the crook of my other arm.

“Fine. Decide what you want to keep and then Dad and I’ll deal with whatever’s left.”

“Okay.” As I continued toward the room, Mom’s voice stopped me again. “Want me to bring you some coffee?”

“No, thanks. I don’t think it will take that long.”

And she didn’t need to know I’d already consumed three cups before I got here.

“Let me know if you need anything —”

“I will.”

But once I started, I wasn’t leaving until I was finished.

I paused outside the door, one hand resting on the brass knob. I flashed back to the night of Jillian’s engagement party, when I’d passed by this room, unable to enter. And then, months later, I’d discovered my letter jacket. The key to the time capsule . . . and so much else.

It was time to deal with whatever my parents had left in the closet. I rested my forehead against the door, inhaling and holding my breath for one . . . two . . . three heartbeats.

I could do this. I wanted to do this. There was nothing to be afraid of. I was looking through stuff. Boxing it up. Maybe taking a few things to my house.

Maybe.

Opening the door, I switched on the light, tossing my letter jacket onto the bed. Picked up the stack of containers and carried them into the room, lining them up against the far wall below the window before removing the lids and setting them on top of the queen bed.

The assortment of photos above the desk snagged my attention again. Our lives captured in freeze-frame moments.

We looked happy.

We had been happy.

I didn’t have any photos of Pepper in my house. Should I disturb the montage and take one or two?

No. Maybe I’d look through family photos some other day. And maybe in doing so, I’d recapture more of the closeness I’d shared with Pepper.

Today was only about clearing out the closet.

It was easy to remove Pepper’s letter jacket from its hanger. To hold it close for a few seconds before folding it and placing it in a container and then placing my matching crimson-and-white letter jacket on top of it.

Why was I keeping them? People didn’t wear their letter jackets after they graduated from high school —or did they? Maybe some people dug them out of storage for class reunions. But I didn’t know if I’d be attending any of those. Maybe one day, if I got married and had children, they’d find these . . . and I could tell them stories about playing volleyball with their aunt Pepper.

I traced the outline of the white cloth letter stitched to the front of Pepper’s jacket. For the first time, I was thinking about my future, even if my thoughts were still tagged with maybe. And for the first time, my sister was a part of my future.

Did I ache when I thought about what might or might not happen years from now? Yes. But Pepper had been such an important part of my yesterdays. I wanted her to be a part of my tomorrows, too.

Six years of club ball —twenty-four jerseys between the two of us —remained in the closet. We’d claimed the numbers 11 and 13 early on and managed to keep them through every season. I gathered an armful of jerseys, each with the name of our club —Endurance —written across the back, and transported them to the bed, repeating the process until a messy pile of blue and white covered it.

With the closet cleared, I noticed a black CD player that had been pushed to the back. What was that doing in here?

Picking it up, I shoved aside the jerseys, the plastic hangers rattling, and sat on the bed, clicking the CD player open. Sure enough, inside was a CD labeled Practice Playlist.

Setting the player on top of the desk, I knelt and searched for an outlet. Would this even work? My fingers trembled as I pushed the Play button and sat on the edge of the bed again.

Within seconds the first song filled the room.

“These are great songs, Pay!” Pepper lay across her bed, her eyes closed, a smile stretching across her face.

“Why wouldn’t they be? Everybody on the team picked two. All I did was put the CD together.”

“But the order of the songs makes a big difference. I can’t wait to play this over the school’s speakers in the gym!”

We’d listened to these songs over and over during our varsity season junior year. I knew every word to every single song on this CD. Sometimes we’d danced on the court with our teammates. Sometimes we’d have a quick sing-off with the girl on the opposite side of the net while we waited for a teammate to serve the ball. Oh, how Pepper loved to crank the music up loud if we were having an off night. . . .

Oh, how my sister loved volleyball.

How I loved her.

“I miss you, Pepper. . . .”

My whispered admission cracked something open inside me. It was as if I’d tried to defend against a giant outside hitter, but instead, the volleyball slammed into my chest and knocked the air out of my lungs. I slipped from the bed to my knees, jerseys falling around me, rubbing my fist against my sternum as my entire body shook with a decade of repressed emotion. Tears streamed down my face, each one a testament to my loss. I bent over, my face to the floor, hoping the carpet would muffle my sobs.

Surely the weight of all this would suffocate me. . . .

And yet, somehow, I wasn’t alone. Pepper seemed to sit beside me. Mourning with me.

We’d lost each other too soon . . . lost the chance to grow and change together . . . to understand one another . . . to accept one another.

When we were sixteen, I’d expressed confusion and hurt as anger. But I never stopped loving Pepper. And she never stopped loving me. We just hadn’t been able to talk it all out together.

But I could say the truth out loud now. And doing so could change things. It could change me.