Garrett shifts so he can look over his shoulder at me. “You know what was worse?”
I shake my head. “What?”
“Watching Kai suffer. He pressed his fingers to his lips to kiss them, then pressed them to mine. He told me he loved me. Called me Bear. And told me how terrifying it was to watch me spin. It was so evident he thought he’d lost me. Weirdly, because of how my father never accepted me because I wasn’t straight, I think I’ve never truly believed that even Kai could love me. I kept five percent of myself separate and ready to tell myself ‘I told you so’ when Kai eventually left me, if you get what I mean. But seeing how he reacted when he thought I was going to be killed showed me there’s no five percent. He really fucking loves me with every piece of him.”
I press a kiss to his shoulder and resist the urge to hold him tightly. “That’s a lot, and also beautiful.”
Garrett nods. “If a good thing had to come of crashing like I did, it’s that singular epiphany. I love him, and you, one hundred percent.”
“I love you one hundred percent too.”
“Do you trust me, Isla?” he asks.
“Implicitly.”
The bike rumbles beneath me, and then, we move. Slowly, at first, we roll down the driveway. It’s smooth and controlled, like every turn is choreographed. I press closer to him. My chest to his back.
It’s not adrenaline that fuels him. It’s trust. Trust in himself. Trust in the machine we’re on. Trust in me.
True to his word, we don’t go fast.
It’s steady. I can tell his faith in himself and the bike returns when we start to move a little faster, and weave a little.
When we get back after only ten minutes of riding up and down our road, I’m smiling so hard, my cheeks hurt.
“Kai’s going to kill you when he gets home,” I tease.
He points to the cameras. “You should probably wave. He probably already knows. Bet we’ve got text messages. He’ll be pissed I got you on the back of my bike before he did.”
His physio shows up just as we’re putting the bike away.
“I’m going to go to my place while you have your treatment,” I say. “You’ve inspired me to do something brave.”
He tugs me gently into his arms. “Yeah? What’s that?”
“Tackle some of Nanna’s most personal and precious items.”
He kisses me tenderly. “Maybe you inspired me to be brave too. I’m glad I’m still alive to experience this…with you.”
“Me too.”
“Be careful. Lock your doors. Call me if you get scared or for any reason.”
I pat his chest. “I promise I will.”
With a full heart, I practically skip across the road, ready to tackle one of the jobs I’ve been dreading. I turn to wave when I reach the front door, knowing he watched me all the way home. But as I approach the dresser containing all of Nanna’s precious things, I feel a tightness in my chest.
I set up my phone and press record. “Hey, it’s Isla and welcome back to the renovation of my nanna’s house. This one is going to be difficult. I guess it’s been easy enough to tackle junk and wallpaper and out-of-date food cans. But I’ve been putting off going through her personal effects. I know people are going to have all kinds of views on how I should handle this, but, please, be kind in the comments. My nanna got joy from dressing her best, even if no one would see her. If you showed up any time of day, she’d greet you in her indoor dress shoes and a piece or two of mostly costume jewelry.”
Everything is in boxes or little fabric bags. There are layers of tissue dividing everything. I lift one of the fabric bags and smell it as I look at the camera. “Everything smells like her.”
Tears sting, but this time, they don’t fall.
I open the pouch out onto my hand and smile.
“Did you know that during World War II, there was a thing called Sweetheart Jewelry? Sometimes, it was called Patriot jewelry. It showed you had loved ones on the front lines.” I hold up the delicate piece of silver jewelry. It features the US Navy’s insignia and delicate forget-me-not flowers. “My great-grandmother, my nanna’s mom, was sent this in 1944 by her husband. And, of course, I’m keeping this.”
I make my way through various other pieces. While my decision to keep, gift, sell, or donate isn’t monetary based, I do look out for gold items that I could possibly melt down and have made into something I would want to wear. “I’m keeping the pieces that remind me of Nanna. These were her everyday pearl studs. And I have a picture of me when I was seven and Nannais wearing these little silver flowers. I guess it’s a challenge to decide what’s meaningful to you. I know Nanna wouldn’t want me to keep this place like a museum or time capsule. But there are times when I wish she’d left me clearer instructions of what she wanted done with her things.”
