Chapter 3

The next morning, Tamara knocked on my door with breakfast.

As soon as I opened the door, she looked down at my feet and asked, "Were you wearing those leather shoes again yesterday?"

She crouched without waiting for my reply.

As expected, the skin around my heel had been rubbed raw.

She frowned as she tore open the packaging of a band-aid and carefully applied it to my heel.

"How many years has it been already? Even now, you're still tormenting yourself with that pair of shoes," she complained.

I looked down at her and asked, "When did you come back?"

She paused before replying, "Just before 3:00 am."

"Didn't you tell me you'd only take half an hour?"

"He was puking his guts out and later developed a fever."

She looked up as she spoke and, seeing my sour expression, immediately added with a smile, "Fine. It was my bad. How long do you want to hold me in your arms today? Is half an hour enough for you? If not, I'll throw in extra hugging time on the house."

I pulled my foot out of her grasp.

She clicked her tongue and muttered, "Here you go again. It's true that I flaked out on you yesterday, but we can always celebrate your birthday again next year. Don't put a damper on our upcoming wedding over something trivial like this."

I gazed at her and asked, "Do you think it's just because of a birthday celebration?"

"What else could this be about?" she asked back.

Then, she hooked her finger around mine and said, "Alright already. I'll swap out your wedding shoes for a pair of soft-soled ones. Your heels always hurt for days once they're chafed."

She was still just as good as ever at caring for others, but she was also just as proficient at using it like a weapon.

In the afternoon, I went back to Melody's place to retrieve the old photo album I needed for the wedding.

As soon as I opened the door, I caught a whiff of paint.

The closet in my original room was filled with Ian's clothes.

Melody was standing on a portable ladder, painting the wall white.

From the year I turned seven, our father, Alex Shea, had measured my height against the wall every year.

The wall held markings from when I was ten, 12, 15, and so on.

Dad had drawn the last line on the wall just three months before he passed away.

Next to it, he had written, "Shane's grown taller again."

The white paint was now covering most of it.

I stood in the doorway, forgetting to even change my shoes.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

Melody turned around and paused when she saw me.

Ian walked out of the room and said, "Shane, please don't blame Melody. I was the one who told her that the messy wall was a little depressing to look at."

I turned and asked, "Who allowed you to stay in my room?"

Melody climbed off the ladder and replied in Ian's stead, "The living room's air conditioning isn't working. Besides, you're getting married soon, so this room would've remained vacant in the future too."

"What about the wall, then?"

After a few seconds of silence, she replied, "I forgot."

Her two-word reply sounded so casual compared to what I'd just lost.

Just last week, she'd even asked Ian in the group chat whether he was comfortable sleeping in the living room and if the air conditioning was cold enough for him.

As it turned out, she hadn't been careless. I simply hadn't mattered to her.

She'd forgotten about Dad's writing on the wall and how I used to stand on tiptoe every year to get Dad to draw the line a little higher.

Yet, she'd cared enough to consider whether Ian would feel depressed staring at this wall at night.

Ian was still talking.

"Can't you just draw the lines back on? They're just some height markers from when you were a kid. There really isn't any need to—"

"Shut up."

It was the first time Melody snapped at him, but it was too little, too late.

I took the house key off my keyring and placed it on the shoe rack.

Melody instantly paled. "What are you doing?"

I replied with the photo album in my arms, "Didn't you say that I would soon be marrying into the Jackson family? Ian can have this place, then."

Melody grabbed my arm and argued, "Ian, I only said that in a fit of anger."

I looked down at her hand. "But the wall's truly gone."

She slowly let go as if she'd been burned.

The wall behind her was glaringly white in my eyes.

Melody's mouth gaped open and closed, but she didn't say, "I'll put the handwriting back."

She probably knew that she couldn't simply recreate Dad's handwriting.

I walked out the door, leaving the key I'd used for over a decade on the shoe rack.

This time, I no longer had a reason to make up excuses to come back.