Sometimes a breath brushes sharp edges, and I shatter in remembrance. More often, I breathe with less pain.
The deaths, the losses, the grief are a part of me, but no longer restrict me.
I live.
I love.
I wish the same for you.
I trace the words, lingering over the dents where the writer pressed the pen harder. They speak of an experience both similar to and different from mine.
Max’s loss didn’t hit me hard after the fact, likely because I spent so much time mourning him while he lay in a drugged sleep trying to escape pain. The thorns had crept into me earlier, over the preceding months, years, as I worried, nagging him to keep medical appointments and occasionally panicked—admittedly with little cause—any time he delayed responding to calls or texts in a reasonable fashion.
He's lodged in my heart and lungs, but I don’t think of him with every breath or even every other, merely countless times a day, ever more wistfully wishing that he were here to see, smile, touch, laugh.
At least one of the giver’s wishes is true.
I live.
As for the other …
If they meant love generally—platonic, familial—those didn’t die with Max. Yet the choice of flowers, the addition of white blooms, the pink wrapping and cover, suggest awareness that pink is my favorite color. This, plus the time invested in inscribing the quotes, speaks of affection for me. Perhaps, even, romantic love?
Who would do this?
Corin breaks the silence to ask about the book. I tell him, them, what it is, what it contains, and what’s missing—the giver’s name—all the while holding it against my chest. I’m not willing to share it, not yet, not until I’ve had time to study every inscription to see which resonate with me, and search of any hint as to the giver’s identity.
Whoever sent it meant the contents for me.
My nieces exchange pointed glances, but assure me they understand when I excuse myself to huddle in a comfy chair in the living room, pouring over the inscribed words.
Corin says nothing, merely settles opposite me on the sofa with a tablet perched on his lap, no doubt putting out many of the little fires that started in the business over the past months. His apple-cider scent fills the room, overriding the rose perfume clinging to the book except when I hold it close to my nose.
The girls’ voices chime in the distance as Bebe, Caity, and their friends help Anamaria unpack, then slowly drift down and away with polite farewells in passing. Bebe and Caity stop for longer hugs before they depart for their respective dorms. I break from reading long enough to embrace them, but return to the book at the first opportunity.
I still don’t recognize the handwriting. Too many people could know about Max sending me red and pink roses for that to narrow down the options down much.
Only the words, the choices of quotes, and the few unattributed passages—which might have come from my unknown benefactor directly—offer any clues, and even there, nothing strikes a chord.
Save that the quotes taken together speak of grief never leaving, but rather shifting to become a part of one’s daily breaths in new and less painful ways—each in their own time. The message resonates. It’s what happened to me when my parents passed. The immediacy of thinking of them every day,remembering I couldn’t call, dwindled to now and then, in differing degrees.
Maybe it’s just because that’s what I want to take from the words. I love Max—that will never change—but I long to live on and enjoy my life.
And I want to know who sent this.
“Don’t stay up too late,” Corin says, brushing his thumb against my cheek as he tucks away his tablet away and turns off the light on the far side of the room. “Tomorrow will be a full day. Get some sleep.”
The muscles in his throat work as though he’s swallowing more words, but he turns and leaves me to the book without asking what I’ve learned.
His silence is more eloquent than he may know, for an invitation from the morning repeats in my ears as he leaves.‘Stay with me again?’
Except my mind plays tricks on me and changes it after the third repetition to‘Stay with me tonight.’
Chapter 14
A Precarious Position
CORIN
