I close my eyes, my voice croaking in my reply. “Of course.”
“I think there’s a part of grief almost no one talks about, but everyone feels.”
“Tell me.”
“Well, when someone you love dies, it’s not just their absence you feel. It’s something… deeper. Something harder to name. I’ve wrestled with this for years. When my grandmother and then my father died, it wasn’t just the loss that shattered me. It was the part of myself that only they could bring out in me.”
My nod is slow, and I remind myself to breathe.
“There were parts of me that only they got to see.” She dips her head and smiles. “My hideous snort-laugh when I find something hilarious. Or the way I felt invincible and brave simply because I knew I could count on them to be my biggest cheerleaders.”
“The parts you show in the safety of being fully known,” I whisper.
“Yes! And now that they’re gone, those parts of me went quiet too. I never expected that. Not just missing them, but missing who I was when they were both here.”
“Yeah. I get it.”
“Do you?” She comes off the stump and sits right next to me on the grass. “I feel it in the smallest moments too. When I catch myreflection and realize my smile has changed. Or… missing the old spark inside of me that I didn’t realize they had been lighting up all along. Wondering why my life feels… dimmer.”
I reach for her hand again, only this time, I gently entwine my fingers with hers. “That’s hidden grief, Keri. Missing someone and then missing yourself.”
She looks right at me, her eyes shimmering pools of baby blue. “But I’ve learned those parts didn’t totally disappear. Because as much as loss takes from us, it also leaves something behind.”
“Like what?”
“Love.”
My lower lip trembles as I try to keep it together. “Go on.”
“A love that… reshapes itself. In the way we let their memory, their courage and kindness, their legacies ripple through everything we do. I’m trying to listen more closely and love more fiercely. To soften the hard shell I’ve put up around me. I want to move through the world they once moved through, not second-guessing everything. Do you know what I mean? I’m trying to learn how to keep their memories alive. I don’t want to replace them. I want to honor the version of me I’m becoming because they were the ones who I loved the most.” She lets go of my hand and exhales a half-laugh. “I’m sorry. I’m jabbering away and not making any sense. You’re so easy to talk to. So to answer your question, I guess that explains why I never left Heartsboro.”
“Makes total sense.” A tear makes a path down my cheek, and I sniffle. Keri jerks her head to look right at me, her eyes going wide at the sight of me crying.
“Oh, no. I didn’t mean to…”
“—I appreciate your honesty more than you’ll ever know,” I interrupt, running my fingers under my eyes. I laugh, trying to bring some levity into the somber moment. “The bottom line is, feeling lost is part of finding yourself again.”
“You’re right.” Her smile is slight as she nods with enthusiasm.
I allow my urge to stroke her cheek to take over. She leans into my hand, her long lashes fluttering closed. I press my lips to the shell of her ear and whisper, “We’re a lot alike, you and me.”
“We are?”
“Mmhmm.”
Chapter Eight
Keri
Adam and I spend the rest of the afternoon together, our conversations effortless and meaningful. It’s been nice hanging out with him. I’ve been happier today. My smiles don’t come across as forced as usual, and I’ve even let out a snort-laugh here and there, much to his chagrin. It’s become a game to see how often I can get him to open up. I know he’s going through something profound. My goodness, he’s been on the road with only his dog, Molly, to keep him company for the last two years. Who does that? And when he cried… ugh, it left me gutted.
He’s so different from me—effortlessly relaxed and nature-loving, with sun-bleached hair and a mellow demeanor. He’s informal, unlike the Southern men I’ve known in crisp shirts, pressed jeans, and touches of whiskey-laced swagger. Adam lives in harmony with nature. His mindfulness anchors him as he runs from whatever haunts him.
But I know as well as he does that we can’t outrun our past.
The past is part of our history. At least we can learn from our mistakes and move forward, focusing on creating a better present and future rather than letting the past control our lives. If only Adam would let me in…
“I need to feed Molly soon,” he says. We’re lounging beneath a shade tree, sipping lavender lemonade while live guitar music drifts on the breeze. Molly lies under Adam’s weathered chair, her snout on her paws, leash tied to the table. Earlier, we wandered through the fields to let her stretch her legs, her exuberance unmistakable. Watching them together, their bond is unmistakably deep.
