Chapter 1
The fear part only come when it’s love,” Aunt Lottie would always say in the kind of broken English others noticed but I never did. “The kind of love that burrow so deep, it transform you. If you lose it, it feel like losing a part of yourself, too.”
That feeling is personified in my stomach right now, and not in the way I expected her advice to come true—about some boy, about Declan. Instead, that full-bodied, love-fueled fear was stirring awake because of her.
“I just want to warn you. Things will look a little different when you get here.” My mom’s voice fills the car speaker.
“I know. It’s— That’s fine. I’ll be there in twenty. Love you, Mom,” I say in a rush, finger hovering over the red button.
She sighs like mothers sigh when they know they can’t protect their daughters from inevitable pain. “Okay, then. I love you more, sweetie. See you soon.”
The call ends, and I swallow hard, readjusting my grip on the steering wheel. A two-lane highway stretches before me, kissing a steep cliff that slopes toward waves that crash against the shore.
As I drive through the tunnel that transports you from vast, open skies to a town that feels too cozy not to be fiction, I force myself to perceive its beauty like the travelers who flock here every summer might. An overhang of trees makes it seem like the town is wearing a beret, and flowers in bloom seemingly all year dot the quaint cottages that look like they’re built by fairies.
A few turns later, I’m nearing my childhood home—or more specifically, The Great Aunt Lottie’s house—but I want to make a stop first. Perhaps it’s further avoidance of what I’m scared to find when I arrive, but I veer left toward the picturesque downtown square regardless.
There’s one local bookstore in Seabrook, California, and it’s only open during the busy tourist season—which seems to be now, judging by the crowds. I have to yield to a conglomerate of pedestrians almost every ten feet. Dads wearing fanny packs are followed closely behind by kids wearing waffle crewnecks screen-printed with the name SEABROOK, melting ice cream cones in hand.
Scoring an unlikely parking spot in front of the bookstore, I brace myself before pushing open the heavy oak door to Seabrook’s Books and Nooks, knowing the odds of running into someone I know from childhood are extremely high.
The comforting aroma of vintage paper wafts toward me as I step in, and my shoulders drop. A bookstore is the first place my feet take me in every town, even the town I know every square inch of. Just as I predict, I’m only three strides into the romance section when my suspicions become a reality.
“Oh my gosh,” a familiar voice starts, “Blair?”
Slowly, I rotate on my heel to see a girl peering around the bookshelves. She wears oversized square glasses and a messy bun, and she’s awaiting my response. It’s a relief that I recognize her.
“Hey, Rosie,” I say with a wan smile.
We were never close in high school, but she was always sweet. Sat in the back of class, smiled at me in the hallways.
“What are you doing back? I thought you were moving to New York City or something.” She waves nonspecifically with her hand into the ether as she fully emerges from around the corner.
At first, I’m astonished by her forwardness. Perhaps I’ve forgotten how much four years can change about a person, but Rosie was particularly known for herlackof speaking.
“Uhh, well.” My hand scratches the back of my neck. “My aunt is sick actually. Came back to spend some time with her.” I drop my hand and try a smile to show her she doesn’t need to feel awkward for asking.
“Oh gosh, Blair, I’m so sorry. I didn’t—”
Before she can continue stammering, I fill her in on the details she’s probably wondering about, or maybe I do it in an attempt for it to feel real.
“It’s okay. Stage four lung cancer. Came out of nowhere and has progressed quickly.” I say it like I’m describing the weather, trying to dismiss the rising emotion in my chest.
“But it will be fine,” I tack on.
That was good, I decide. Instead of trying to scurry around unnoticed I actually let Rosie in on something in my life. I try to not regret it as I look at the pained expression on her face, half sympathy and half panic, unsure of how to respond to something so grave.
Rosie just nods with a grimace as she looks down at her twiddling fingers, which I take as permission to turn around and end this painfully unpleasant experience for both of us, finishing my journey toward the romance section.
There’s a book I just finished on my Kindle last night I want a physical copy of. Frivolous, I know, but I’m unwilling to restrain myself from any hit of dopamine right now. I’ll take any ounce I can get to prepare me for what’s to come.
Usually, pulling into the smooth cobblestone driveway of Aunt Lottie’s house feels like exhaling. Today it feels like forgetting how to breathe. There’s a roundabout that loops in front of the sprawling mansion. Smooth brown-gray stucco sits under sloping wooden roofs, as if the house were built from the nature surrounding it. Contemporary glass windows adorn the sides, but the curtains are all drawn, making the pit in my stomach open wider.
Childhood memories of Lottie chasing me through the garden flood my mind. I try not to choke on the thought of her weakened body laying inside.
My great-aunt Lottie fled Saigon as it fell and was taken over by communists. She told me the story in detail of how she picked up and left everything she knew at age twenty, boarding a boat that was meant to hold two hundred people, but became one thousand. Desperate and grief-stricken, the people forcedthemselves onto the boat, trying to take hold of their last option out of the country as their homes vanished behind them.
Food had to be rationed, and even so, there wasn’t enough to go around. She described the bunk bed she lay atop of, hidden in a lower level of the boat, trying not to move, trying not to think, for the seven days it took to arrive at a small neighboring country.
