“What if you didn’t go?” he says after a while. His tone gentle.
Pulling away, I stare at him. “What?”
“Your app is doing perfectly well on its own now,” he adds, warming up to the idea. “The interview was a bonus but it’s not necessary. I know how stressed you’ve been about the whole trip. You could let it go, Sam, and you wouldn’t have any reason to feel bad about it, because the date change is out of your control.”
Stepping away, I drop back into my chair. He sounds like me. The me I was before I met him.
A few months ago, I would have jumped at the chance to avoid going through with a challenge of this magnitude. Scratch that. A few months ago, I never would have put myself in this position in the first place. A live television interview? No way would I have dared to reach so high. But since meeting Tristan, I’ve done all sorts of big and scary things. I’ll admit the effort has left me tired and worn, but I’m also more successful than I’ve ever been. Where would I be right now if I hadn’t dared to try? What will become of me if I stop?
“No,” I say in a small voice. Small but clear. “I can’t back out now and I won’t. I understand why you can’t come with me, but you’ve also made it clear you don’t want me to come with you.” I try not to let my hurt and frustration show, but Tristan’s no idiot and I’m not that good an actor. “Nothing is stopping me from going.”
Nothing—except my own fear. Tristan has always called me brave. Now I want to live up to his opinion of me. I want to be brave enough to do the biggest, scariest thing of all.
Tristan returns to the table, reaching out to hold tight to my hand. “Are you sure? I know how hard it’s been on you, getting this far.” He swears under his breath, his head hanging. “I’m so sorry, Sam. I’m a mess and I’m letting you down. I want to do better, give you everything you deserve but…” his gaze lifts to the ceiling, as if searching the heavens for the answers he’s never been able to find. “Even if I can come at forgiving myself for her death one day, I will always have a responsibility to honour her memory. To keep the promises I made.”
What about the promise you made to me?
I don’t say the words out loud. They would sound pathetic and needy. I’m a grown man, I shouldn’t need someone to hold my hand for a simple trip interstate. Even if it is a departure from my comfort zone on a grand scale. Even if the riot taking over my body could cause the floorboards beneath my feet to break if I fail to keep it under control.
“It’s all right, Tristan,” I say, trying to sound like I mean it. I don’t mean it though, not even close. “I would never ask you to choose me over Claire. I wouldn’t do that to you.” I would never do it to myself either. It would hurt too much, because I know I would lose.
Tristan’s heart is mine. I believe that. But a heart can’t survive without the blood that feeds it. And Tristan’s blood, every drop, is infused with his devotion to Claire. His guilt is her legacy. I’m not sure he’ll ever give that up.
TWENTY-EIGHT
______
TRISTAN
I arrive at the cemetery early—about seventeen hours early. Claire’s anniversary isn’t until tomorrow, so this afternoon’s visit doesn’t count. Somehow, I’ve ended up here anyway.
Maybe I want to know what it feels like to come on the wrong day. To comeas ifI won’t be here at all tomorrow, even though I will.
The grey sky hasn’t fallen. Claire’s ghost hasn’t materialised to torment me for my betrayal. Even so, coming on the wrong day feels like… cheating.
My penance isn’t meant to be convenient. I’m not supposed to have the option of scheduling it around the other events and people in my life. Itshouldbe disruptive. Itshouldbe arduous. If living out my penance doesn’t hurt me, then what’s the point? And if I stop hurting, maybe she’ll know. Maybe she’ll think I’ve stopped regretting what I did. Maybe she’ll think I’ve forgotten.
I don’t want Claire to be disappointed in me.
Sam is disappointed in me. I don’t blame him. I made him a promise and now I’ve broken it. The thought inspires fresh guilt to go with the old. Sam doesn’t deserve to be relegated to second place in the life of the man who professes to love him. At the same time, how can I possibly cast Claire aside? How can it be okay for me to go riding off into the sunset with the love of my life when she has to stay here?
Sam left for the airport right before I came here. It’s been a tough couple of days for both of us. He’s barely spoken, barely even looked at me. He’s spent a lot of time alone—in his meditation space or down in the studio when it’s not occupied. At first, I thought he was giving me the silent treatment, but then I realised he’s just been trying to cope as best he can. By withdrawing from the world, reserving his energy. It’s what he does.
At night, he’s still allowed me to hold him, but I know he hasn’t been sleeping well. This is what I’ve done to the man I love. I’ve turned him into me.
This morning he checked in to his flight without asking me for help. He booked his taxi. He packed his bag. Then he wrapped me up in a fierce hug, kissed me briefly on the mouth, and left without a word.
I wanted to go with him.
My grip tightens around the bouquet of Cooktown orchids in my hand as I make my way across the lawn to Claire’s grave. Kneeling on the ground, I brush stray bits of grass and leaves off the flat headstone. I pull a bunch of dead flowers from one of the plastic holders before emptying the yellowed water onto the grass. Opening the bag I’ve brought with me, I take out a bottle of water and refill the holder before pushing the spike at the bottom back into the dirt. The scissors come out next. It takes a couple of minutes to cut the flowers from the fresh bouquet to an appropriate length and arrange them neatly in the holder. The delicate, purple petals dance in the breeze. They’re nice enough. I hope Claire likes them.
She didn’t have a favourite flower. At least, not one I knew about. But I figure, if I bring different flowers every time, I’ll hit upon whichever flower would have been her favourite at least sometimes. Even though I’ll never know which one it is, I’ll have brought it to her. The attempt is like everything else I’ve done in my life: not enough, but better than nothing.
I clean up the mess I’ve made with quick, sharp movements. The bottle of water and scissors go into one bag. The dead flowers and stem cuttings into another. I’m on my way to a bin to dispose of the rubbish when I catch sight of my mother sitting on a bench at the side of the lawn. My steps slow. She lifts a hand in greeting.
Swallowing past the lump that’s leapt into my throat, I toss the rubbish into the bin before dragging my feet over to join her beneath the old paper bark trees. Their branches rustle in the wind and I glance up to see clouds building overhead. It will rain soon.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” I say as I lower myself to the bench beside my mother.
