Chapter 8: The Closet

He came to the back door at eight the next morning with a coffee cake.

It had sunk in the middle.

"I used the sour cream," Abram said.

"It looks like a crater."

"It tastes like a crater, but a good one."

I cut two slices on the kitchen counter and we ate standing up.

It was dense and sweet and slightly burned at the edges, and it was the best thing I'd tasted all week.

I told him so.

He looked pleased and sad at the same time, and he didn't say anything.

My mother had taken the truck to the farm stand early.

I knew she'd done it on purpose.

The house was empty, and the stairs creaked under my feet.

"I'll wait down here," he said.

"No. Come up."

The hallway upstairs was narrow and bright with morning.

At the end of it was a white door with a brass knob.

I had walked past it a thousand times since last May.

I had learned how to walk past it without turning my head.

Now I stood in front of it with my palm flat on the wood.

"It's only a closet," I said.

"It's only a closet."

"It's got shirts in it."

"Shirts are manageable."

I took a breath, and I opened the door.

The smell came out first, cedar and soap and a faint trace of orchard dirt.

It hit me in the chest, and for a second I couldn't move.

Abram's hand settled on my back, warm and steady, and stayed.

His flannel shirts hung in a row, red and green and brown.

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