Page 23 of When We Were Young

“Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?”

My voice is sing-song as I try to imitate an owl call. My attempt at humor falls flat when she tilts her head and narrows her eyes at me.

“Um, what was that? And I cook for myself.”

A laugh escapes me at how literal she is.

It’s cute. Charming.

“It’s the call of a barred owl. Here, wait a minute.”

I grab my phone, pull up a video of the barred owl call, and press play.

“Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?” I chant along with the owl.

Confusion continues to mar her face.

“It was a joke. I was imitating the owl to tell you I can be a night owl, too. So, I’ll stay if it’s all right with you.”

Her eyes brighten, and her lips purse as understanding washes over her.

“First of all, that’s very dorky. Adorable, but dorky. Second, why didn’t you go with a simple hoot?”

I grin at her and take the few steps over to the cart of books she must have pulled over when she woke me. I glance at the label and push the cart in the direction we need to go. Fortunately, she doesn’t fight me but instead walks beside me.

“A simple hoot is for beginners. It’s the great horned owl hoot. Those of us more advanced in owl calls⁠—”

“Oh, so you’re an expert in owl sounds, huh?”

She giggles, and it pleases me to help lighten things for her, even for a few minutes.

I know she’s stressed about what state she’ll find her mom in when she gets home. Depression is no joke, and it sounds like Lizette and her sister have been taking care of their mom for a while because of it.

We’ve made it to the first stack we need, and I hand Lizette the few books to shelve.

We continue along with our routine, working as smoothly as clockwork.

“Yeah, I sort of am an expert... maybe. We had a barred owl that lived in a tree near the edge of our property when I was a kid. I used to climb up into the elm tree in our backyard so I could get a better view.”

I picture the massive tree, and my chest warms thinking about how significant it was to us growing up—and still is.

“My brothers and I all loved that tree, but I think it was extra special to me.” I clear my throat and swallow past the lump that’s suddenly there.

“Our dad was a carpenter, and he built us the most kick-ass tree house in that elm. I was his assistant, which mostly meant I handed him tools and was his gopher. Still, that time when we were building it, chatting about mundane things, taking breaks to sip sweet tea under the elm’s shade—those were some of the best days of my life.”

Her wistful smile pleases me.

“That sounds wonderful, Holden. You were lucky to have him, huh?”

“Yeah, absolutely. He was the best.”

Over the next twenty minutes or so, I drone on about owl facts, and she’s sweet enough to listen attentively.

Before I know it, we have shelved all the books, and I’m disappointed our time is over already.

After we’ve gathered our stuff and turned off all the library lights, we walk to the door. The glow from the exit signs is the only reason it’s not pitch black in here. Before we step outside, she stops and turns to me. She’s nervous, biting at her lower lip.

“You okay? Are you anxious about seeing your mom? You said her mood seemed better when you talked to her last.”