“What is it?” Damon asks. “Is something wrong?”
“No, that was…” I pocket the phone, sighing. What horrid timing. “Alison’s headstone is ready.”
The color drains from Damon’s face. “Oh.”
“We can schedule a service for next weekend if you’re ready.”
He expels a low, weak laugh. “I’ll never be ready, Q. But sure, next weekend is fine.”
“Are you okay, Damon?” I tilt my head. “You can talk to me.”
“I'm fine,” he says, continuing to hide behind fabricated healing. “Let’s keep painting.”
I’m not the only one caged.
At least mine is breaking.
Will his?
THE DANDELION
EMERY
It’s a beautiful day.Almost too beautiful. The sun shines down on us, the warm rays of light kissing our skin. Birds chirp in the distance, carrying the whispers of an impending spring. Tree leaves rustle in the gentle wind, and it smells like new beginnings. But for Damon, today is an end. Today is the closing of a chapter, of an entire book.
As we approach the cemetery, I reach for Damon’s hand but he subtly jerks away from me, halting before the imposing iron gates. I flick my gaze to Quinton, and we exchange a look of mutual empathy. Maybe if there are no more words to read, no more sentences to dissect, no more pages to bookmark and dwell on, maybe then Damon can move on. Move forward. Look at the future, not the past. Maybe after today, whenshe’s finally laid to rest, Damon can hear her words, accept her forgiveness, and hopefully, find his own.
Damon stares at the gates of the graveyard, his expression cold and hard. And it’s like his whole body is frozen, stuck on this side of the story—a tale that needs to end.
“Why don’t you go ahead and see if the pastor needs anything?” I say to Quin, who nods and gently squeezes Damon’s shoulder before heading through the gates.
Damon remains unresponsive, closed off as his hands clench in and out of tight, white-knuckled fists. I take a tentative step toward him, positioning myself by his side, close enough that he can reach out and touch me, use me for support, but not so close that I’m encroaching on his space.
“You don’t have to stand here with me,” he finally says, clipped and broken.
“I know I don’t have to.” I keep my gaze focused on the monuments, on the statues, on the headstones in the distance. “I’mchoosingto stand here with you. We can stand here for hours if you wish. We booked the pastor for the entire day. There’s no rush.”
Long, charged minutes pass as we stand silently together, only the whistling of wind interrupting the quiet. Pollen floats around us, riding the waves of wind and air. I follow the dispersing seeds of dandelions as they dance, seeking new homes, new earth on which to grow. I’ve always liked dandelions. They’re such resilient little weeds. It’s a common misconception that dandelions are lawn killers. Most homeowners panic and run straight to their weed whackers when theyencounter the sprouting buds of a dandelion. But that’s untrue. Dandelions fertilize the soil. Make it rich. Make it more hospitable for plants and vegetables and trees.
A dandelion seed lands on Damon’s shoulder, and I smile, letting it rest on the fabric of his black suit. Damon thinks his grief is a weed. That it needs to be pulled. That it’s destroying his life. But he, too, is wrong. His grief, while traumatic, allows for other emotions to find a home in his heart. Like love. His love for his parents. His love for his sister. His love for me. For this baby. For Quin. And his love for Alison.
Damon breaks the silence, voice distant and pondering. “I wonder what kind of life she would’ve had if she didn’t die.”
I swallow, banishing the thought that my entire life’s trajectory would be different given his implied narrative. But it’s not about me. Not now. Even though I know that if she didn’t die, I would have.
“She said she had all these goals…” Damon trails off. “She never told me what they were. I-I never really asked. I should’ve asked her.”
He’s quiet again, and I realize I’m not required to reply, to comment. I’m simply here to listen, no matter how difficult the story is to hear.
“I bet Quin asked,” he says, jaw clenching. “Quin would’ve asked. He… I think he loved her more than I did. He-He accepted her just as she was. But I… There was always something I tried to fix in her. Something I tried to hide.” Damon slowly cranes his neck toward me, acknowledging me for the first time. His tone is flatand matter-of-fact as he reveals, “She was a stripper. Did we ever tell you that? When we first met her? She danced at Lux.”
Alison’s heart rattles between my lungs, but the sensation coursing through my veins isn’t one of shock or surprise but of peace, understanding. Charles mentioned she was an exotic dancer. It all makes sense. Everything that happened makes perfect sense.
All I can do is nod.
Damon looks away from me again, gaze locked on the swaying trees in the distance. “It’s all my fault, you know?”
“Damon—”
