My mother burned every single item belonging to or resembling my dad the day after his funeral. I have no physical memory of him. Not even a single photograph. When I was younger, I’d scour the house for anything that reminded me of him: a plate, a towel, a DVD. One time, I found an old sock of his. She burned that, too. She said I was too young to understand, that I might never understand. Now there are zero chances of me finding anything of my father’s. The house she owns now—the one I’m currently in—is not my home.

Neither is my house.

Or the town I live in.

We try to preserve as much of my mother as possible. Every item, every scent, every memory. In the living room, she used to sit on this giant armchair next to my dad’s recliner. When I close my eyes, I can still see her there; a blanket on her knees, knitting needles between her fingers. Smiling. She was always smiling. When she did frown, it was because one of us kids was sad or hurt. Her chair’s still in the living room. Over the years, the smell of her has faded. No one sits on the chair. No one but Lachlan. I don’t recall the conversation. It’s not like we all sat down and said, “We have to preserve this piece of her. Only Lachlan can sit in her chair, smell her perfume left behind, so that he can feel somewhat close to her. If we all sit there, we’ll take a piece of her with us every time we leave it. Let him have this tiny piece of her.” When I was kid, I’d watch Lachy sitting in the same spot I’d always find her. Even now, seeing him there makes my breath catch.

He’s sitting with his legs crossed, headphones on, iPad in hand. It’s Friday night. I’ve already had my fill of Mary, and so I rush through the house, hope he doesn’t catch onto it. I make it to the front door before he calls out, “Where are you going?”

My shoulders slump, and I lick my lips, try to act straight. I turn to him, shrug. “Just going to hang out with Aubrey.”

“At her house?” he asks, removing the headphones.

“I guess.”

“In Raleigh?”

“What?”

“She’s gone home for the weekend, dude.” He sighs, puts his headphones back on. “Sheesh, don’t you and your girlfriend communicate?”

“She’s not my girlfriend.” I think. Or maybe she’s closer to it than I let myself believe, because she should’ve told me, right? I mean, we made plans. Didn’t we?

I go to her house anyway, just in case Lachlan was talking shit. The house is dark, no sign of life, and so I try calling her. Her phone goes directly to voicemail the first time, so I don’t really know why I try three more times. I go to her shop. It, too, is closed. But there’s no sign on the door saying she’s closed for the weekend. I call home, ask Lachlan how he knew Aubrey was going out of town. He says Lucy told him. I call Lucy. She confirms. I call Aubrey again. I’m officially that guy. Surprise, surprise: straight to voicemail.

I’ve lit up another joint before I even make it to my shack, my phone on my lap in case she calls. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to seeing her even though I managed to satisfy my craving yesterday. Yesterday was intense, sure, but it was rushed. I like to take my time with Red. Like to build her up just to pull away, tease her. She hates it. I love it.

The sun’s setting earlier now than it did the one time she was here. I get out of the truck and instantly look up at the stars. They’re still the same in my eyes: dots of light surrounded by darkness. Some rustling sounds from beside me, and I know who it is without turning. I click my fingers, mumble, “Come here, Chicken.”

Aubrey wasn’t exaggerating; the pig is a beast. He walks—waddles?—over to me, his snout instantly going to my hand. He loves the smell of weed. Sometimes, when I’m really high, I think about blowing smoke in his face. I’m not that cruel. Plus, if he’s anything like other stoners, he’ll probably get the munchies, and that’s not a good idea when he’s 350 pounds, and I’m the only thing in front of him. He searches around us, as if he’s looking for something, someone. “She’s not here,” I say aloud.

Chicken squeals.

“I know, dude. Me too.”

I smoke three joints in a row, because there’s fuck-all to do, and I don’t feel like partying. I call Aubrey again, and this time, I leave her a voicemail. “Thanks for letting me know you were heading out of town. I could’ve made other plans.” And then I hang up, because I’m annoyed and I’m disappointed, and I’m alone on a Friday fucking night when I don’t have to be.

I call Aubrey again. I’ve memorized her voicemail message, memorized her voice. “Can you please call me when you get back? Hope everything’s okay. I’m missin’ ya, Red.”