How it happened doesn’t matter to me. The only thing that matters is her being here, in my arms, and she’s decided to stay. It could have been Santa. It could have been Hillary.
Either way, I’m grateful and I’m never letting her go.
EPILOGUE
FIVE MONTHS LATER
HOLLYN
I step out onto the back porch of the beach house we’ll be staying in for the next few days and take a deep breath. We made it. It’s done.
I’ve seen the country and explored towns so small they only have one stop light, and I’ve visited big cities that made me feel so damn small while also filling me with wonder. And now we’ve come to the end.
At least, the end ofthisroad trip.
After being on the road with Elwood for the last month, I have a feeling we’ll be taking road trips in the future. The first few weeks when I was alone were okay, but seeing everything with Elwood at my side made it all magical.
Maybe it wasn’t the journey or the destination that mattered the most. Maybe it was always the company.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I hold the box holding the last of Hillary’s ashes as I look out at the private beach on the Atlantic Ocean. This is the entire reason we rented this place. We needed access and to ensure there weren’t hordes of people around all the time. It was worthit because now I have a place to spread Hillary’s ashes in private and we get to finish off this road trip in style.
What could be better?
A strong arm wraps around my waist, and I lean back against the man who has become my everything. I’m glad I didn’t pass up the gift I was being given. If I would have driven away from Storyville, I would have missed out on so much.
I wouldn’t have had the chance to fall into the deepest love I could imagine. I wouldn’t have found a group of people who feel like a family. I wouldn’t have found a place that feels like home and gives me a sense of peace beyond what I thought was possible.
“Good morning,” Elwood’s voice is still gruff with sleep as I soak up some of his strength.
My breath hitches as I look out at the ocean and my fingers tighten around the box in my arms. “This feels final,” I whisper the words, afraid to give them more than the barest of recognition.
Because what if they’re true?
“Nothing about this is final,” he rumbles against my back and grounds me when all I want to do is dissolve into a mess of tears and memories that hurt instead of heal. “Look out at the ocean.”
I open my eyes, unsure of when I even closed them to begin with, and take in the view. It’s been our backyard for the last two days and there was something tugging at me to do this today when I woke up. It was a feeling I couldn’t shake, and I’ve learned to listen to those instincts, even if they don’t make any sense.
“It appears endless, a horizon, because from our perspective it is. We know that this ocean meets more land, but we can’t see it. Even when this water hits land again, the currents take it around to meet up with more water. It flows and ebbs, it transforms and it pays homage to so much more than we could even fathom.”
He kisses my neck, and I let the tears fall over my cheeks, not caring about being vulnerable with this man. I trust him with all I am.
Including my fears.
Including my hopes.
Including my love.
“This is just a different stage of grief and moving forward, one Hillary would want you to take. She’ll become one with the water and flow all around the globe. She will dance with fish and ride the waves with whales. She will evaporate and then fall back to the ground as rain which will nurture plants and give new life. Even when her ashes are washed away, the memory of her will live on. In you. In Montana. In everyone Hillary made smile. In everyone she loved.”
I let out a sigh, some of my pain melting into something sweeter. The last five months have been a journey, one that I didn’t have to be on the road to endure. It was all done within my heart and soul. I’ve ridden highs and I’ve coasted through lows. Losing someone who felt like a sister left a scar.
Elwood has helped me by asking me questions about Hillary. He’s helped to keep her memory alive. Through that, the edges of my grief have dulled. But they haven’t disappeared.
I’ve made peace with it as best I can.
Would I rather have my best friend back instead of having to learn how to navigate this grief? Without a doubt, yes.
