A group of friends tries to piece itself back together after losing its glue.
*****
It's a quiet October morning in Palo Alto, California, when the news break out--June Beaumont was...
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GRACE
Christina got me a new bicycle for Valentine's Day.
Coincidentally, it was also the day of my eighteenth birthday, so I supposed it kind of made sense, but there were so many things I thought would be more appropriate to gift someone on Valentine's Day.
She was cheerful, probably too cheerful for such an ungodly time, but I didn't want to be the one to ruin her good mood. That was my mother's job and, considering I was trying my goddamn best to not be like her, I was determined to keep my mouth shut.
"You didn't have to," I told her, hands cupping a steaming mug of coffee. "Really, you didn't."
"I know how you miss your old bicycle," she retorted. I frowned. Ever since the police had ever so kindly confiscated my bicycle and decided to treat it as 'vital evidence', I had been relying on other people for transportation, which made me feel like a parasite. Even now, with the horrible weather and all, I missed my bike. "It just felt right to do something."
"I'm serious, Chris."
"Good. So am I." She was perched up on one of the high stools in my kitchen, while my mother pretended we weren't there. I welcomed it, as it meant one less argument between us, and even my father was secretly glad we had resorted to the silent treatment so he wouldn't have to serve as a mediator. "It's a gift, Grace."
I stared at the waves of steam coming out of my mug. It was almost hypnotic. "Yet all I got you—"
"—was the knitting set I'd been meaning to buy for months now. It's fine, Grace."
"I'm glad one of you has their priorities straight," my mother retorted. She kept her voice low, but still high enough for us—actually, for me—to hear her words. "Nice job, Christina. I didn't know you knitted."
Chris' cheeks flushed crimson. "Uh . . . yeah. I've been doing it since middle school. My grandma taught me." Christina's paternal grandmother was a tricky subject. She'd passed away last year, something I was certain my mother knew—considering we'd been at the funeral—and losing her took a nasty blow on Christina and her connection to her roots. Knitting was one of the few things she had left to remind her of that. "It's—"
"Does she still knit?"
Christina shrunk significantly and I turned to face my mother, fuming. "Uh, no. She, um . . . she passed away."
"We went to the funeral," I pointed out, through gritted teeth, and the energy in the kitchen shifted. The air felt colder, sharper, and the cold wind coming in through the window was brisk against my skin. "We were literally there—"
