“Knowing you, you’ll write it and win the Pulitzer,” she says with a laugh, having no idea what that term does to my insides. It’s the first time I’ve heard it in forever, and it stuns me momentarily, silence filling the line as sweet memories collide with sadness. “Well, I love you, and I hope you come home soon.”
“I love you too.” The words come out barely audible as I hang up and close my eyes. It’s always much easier to sleep than to be awake.
Sleep means I can hide from the grief for just a little bit longer.
Sleep means Beaux.
Chapter 32
Two weeks later
S
he’s so beautiful it hurts sometimes to look at her.
I glance up from the bed to see Beaux standing at the edge of it, hair down, eyes on me, a soft smile on her face.
“Tanner,” she whispers as she sits down beside me. The mattress springs squeak, and we both laugh at the memory. She leans over, her hair tickles my face as it falls down to my chest, but I forget all about it the minute her lips brush mine. Her kiss tastes like her, like everything I’ve ever wanted, like forever.
I startle awake from the dream. Same dream. Same heartache when I wake to find her gone and my reality colder than the mountain air coming in through the French doors and slapping me in the face.
I lie there, contemplate the possibility that I’m making my feelings for her out to be more than they were. That the loss means I’ve put her up on the pedestal where people put those they’ve lost; where all of their wrongdoings are erased and good deeds are considered saintly.
But I know that’s not the reason. I know it’s because deep down this is how I really feel. It just took me too long to realize it, too long to tell her, too long to not be so damn scared of real love and fight for what we both deserved, a chance at a future together.
I prop my hands behind my head and mentally go over the beginning of the story that I started on my laptop last night. I looked at the blank page for well over an hour, unsure what to write until I clicked over and got lost in Beaux’s images I had downloaded to my hard drive.
They made me feel close to her for a bit. Sounds silly since it’s technically only been ten days since she died, but for me it’s been months since I’ve held her, seen her smile, heard her laugh. So I clung to the images, looking at the world through her eyes when the story hit me: tired reporter meets a fresh-faced photographer. Definitely not the sort of material a Pulitzer is awarded on, not even the type of book I had planned on writing – a romance of all things – but when I finally fell asleep at the computer after a few hours of type and delete, type and delete, I felt the best I’d felt in a few days.
Almost as if I’m preserving her memory somehow, keeping her alive, keeping her close to me.
I roll over in bed, look out to the forest of trees beyond the cabin, and contemplate falling back asleep so that I can see her again. Just one more time before I start my day.
“Afternoon, Ginger,” I say with a tip of my ball cap as I slide onto the same stool at the same time I do every day.
“The rugged thing looks good on you,” she says with a nod as she slides my beer and shot glass in front of me, pointing to my face where I opted not to shave today. “Pretty soon you’re going to look like a local.”
“Huh,” I say, my eye catching something behind the bar. “What’s that?”
“What’s what?” she asks as she glances along my line of sight before laughing. “Oh those. A lady was in here earlier, just passing through town… forgot them on the counter. Cute little thing.”
I angle my head to the side, the sight of the bubbles making my throat close up some. Just when I start to feel like I’m doing better, something dredges up the raw emotion hiding beneath the surface.
And then of course a part of me has to ask. “What did she look like?”
“You think your heartbreak’s coming looking for you?” Ginger asks with a lift of her chin, an excited smile spreading on her lips at the possibility of anything to gossip about in this one-horse town.
I shake my head and fight the burn in the back of my throat. “Nah. My heartbreak can’t come back.” I lower my hat down farther on my head to hide the emotion in my eyes that I don’t really feel like showing her.
“Sorry,” she says quickly, realizing the meaning behind my words and maybe understanding for the first time why I occupy this stool every day. “She was petite, dark hair, little pregnant belly. Boyfriend was waiting in the car while she was asking for directions and truth be told having a little morning sickness.” I swallow over the lump in my throat as she slides the bubbles down the counter my way. “Go ’head and give them a blow. Something about ’em always makes me feel like a kid again, and you look like you could take a moment to forget.”
My fingers fidget with the bottle in my hand because she has no idea that this little yellow container does anything but make me forget. “Thanks,” I all but whisper as memories of the rooftop come back to me. Of hearing her say she loved me for the first time.
And for the last time.
Thank you. You’ll never know how much it means to us to have this. I stare at the text from Stella’s mother with a bittersweet smile. On my directive, Rylee had sent them Stella’s camera along with the final images on her memory card. Since her last personal effects helped me be able to say good-bye to her, I thought they might add some sort of closure for them as well.
My finger hovers over the text, reflex taking over so that I’m pulling up the photos from that last morning together. Broad smiles and genuine happiness. And no matter how long I stare at our picture, I can’t seem to find any closure when it comes to Beaux.