I don’t know how to answer that. My heart feels like it’s pointing in the right direction, but my head is spinning.
ME:
I don’t know. Maybe I’m just ready for something more. Maybe I’m spending too much time waiting for the lightning strike that I’m missing the rain.
CHELSEA:
Okay, so get out there! I can’t remember the last time you mentioned a date. Do you want me to see if Evan has any single doctor friends?
I grimace.
ME:
No offence, Chels, but doctors just don’t do it for me.
MADELINE:
I can ask Jacob if anyone on the team is single. They’re all pretty good-looking. Athletic, muscular, tattooed*winky-tongue emoji*
ME:
Don’t think athletes do it for me, either.
The tattoos, though? Who would have thought, but those have me under a spell. It’s probably just the skin they’re inked upon. They’re etched on his flesh like a promise, and sealed in my mind like a kiss.
Chapter ten
It was the anniversary of August’s passing last week. I think this is the first time I’ve been out during the day in two weeks. I’ve spent my time at The Wayside, at group meetings, and with my punching bag at home. Anything I can do to exhaust my brain, and at least sleep through some of the pain. It’s no use. I toss and turn for a few hours and eventually give up, sitting on my back porch thinking about him instead. Sometimes, I think of someone else. Someone with golden curls, blue eyes, and a heart of pure sunshine.
Will it ever get easier? The guilt? Missing him?
I saw his mum the other night, when we went to the cemetery together. She’s so much stronger than I am, and it was her own flesh and blood that she lost. Her child. She always tells me how proud August would be of me, of how much I do for others. When I opened The Wayside, I wasn’t strong enough to do anything in his honour, but it still felt like a little piece of him. Smoke and Barrel feels like another one of those little pieces. Something that’s clicking into place and healing my heart from the pain of his absence.
I wasn’t even looking to open another bar when I told Caleb about my new idea. I was on my laptop, making a donation for a local charity, and accidentally clicked on an ad in the sidebar. It took me straight to a news article about the plans to bulldozethe old theatre. I almost clicked out of it until my eye caught a line about two businesses trying to revive the place and failing, and without anyone willing to try a third time, it was destined to become a parking lot for the casino.
Ever since August passed, there have been moments where the number three would appear, and it would somehow feel like it was him. He was the third August Carlisle in his family, always making a point of introducing himself with his whole title. Whenever I see the number three, it feels like him popping in to let me know he’s still with me, or in some cases, pointing me in a direction I need to go. That article was one of those moments. I called Caleb straight away and told him I wanted to try to take over the premises for an exclusive whiskey lounge.
Beth noticed my mood this week. She always does. The little devil is actually incredibly loving. She called me last night, demanding I accompany her to this fundraiser today.
Thistle Theory is a nursery owned by Grams’s friend, Estelle, and her daughter, Lauren. With their other two friends, Ruth and Rita, they started Life Vine, an organisation that provides counselling and support for people going through abuse, grief, and trauma. I’ve been a regular donor to the organisation since August died, and volunteer for events whenever I can. This is one I normally skip, though. It’s so close to August’s passing, so I just double my usual donation and call it good.
“I wish I had a green thumb. This place is so beautiful to walk around.” Beth sighs as we stroll through the garden centre, her arm looped through mine.
The property is covered with old trees, towering over the land. There are pebbled paths that lead to each section, from roses to succulents, fruit trees, and shrubs. There’s a café on site, and wisteria growing over a long verandah. “I’m certain your bank account could afford you a gardener.”
She snorts. “I’m pretty sure people enjoy gardens for the satisfaction of doing it themselves. Isn’t that why you do it?”
I do it to keep my hands and mind busy. Giving myself a project, something to work towards, keeps me from focusing on things I can’t change.
“I guess so.” I shrug. “Don’t let me forget the stakes for my snapdragons.”
“You always have such nice flowers in your garden, yet you never bring me a handpicked bunch? What’s up with that, Henry?”
“Every time your name gets to the top of my list, you call me Henry.”
Beth scowls at me, running her tongue over her teeth. “Mark my words, one day, I’m gonna find a man who always brings me flowers.”
“Good. He should do that. And until that time, only if you’re nice to me, will I pick some from my garden for you.”
