When we said goodbye, I searched her eyes for answers I couldn’t find, left only with a feeling I can’t shake. For two nights, I lie awake in the moonlight, mind restless, repeating the same prayer.
Please, Lord. Help my heart let go.
I know it’s time to finally move on. And Keri has made it clear she likes spending time with me. We have this undeniable connection, and I’d love to explore it more. But how do I start? How do I take that first step into the unknown, especially when my memories have kept me planted in a perpetual state of grief?
Missing my family makes me wonder if they’re truly gone—or if they live on in how I care for others, like Keri. Maybe their presence lingers in our laughter, strength, and kindness. Perhaps they’re still moving through my world.
I’ve always been spiritual. I believe in a higher power, and in the good my wife and daughter left behind. Their love echoes within me. But after meeting Keri, I feel changed. I’m not rushed or overwhelmed, just normal, like I’ve known her before. Now, I can’t imagine a tomorrow without her.
It’s crazy we’ve only spent a few days together, and some might call it foolish to feel so strongly. Yet, I’m sure this is meant to be. One day was all it took. That night, my heart raced as I studied her photographs, memorizing her and longing for her calm presence.
And when I woke up in her childhood home this morning, sweating and with my heart galloping like a racehorse, it was thoughts of Keri that comforted me. Her beautiful face. The feel of her soft skin against my cheek.
I owe her an explanation. But first, I’ll soften my tragic story with a few hot dogs and s’mores.
***
I spend the afternoon gathering flowers from azalea bushes and dogwood trees. I pluck early wildflowers scattered in the meadow behind the house, tucking them into small bunches. I lay vivid colors along the ground, marking a path for Keri to follow down to my camper van by the creek. I make a simple arrow from sticks before the first bunch of flowers, hoping she’ll take the hint.
After a long shower, I change into clean cargo pants and a pale blue flannel over a white tee. I comb my hair and let it air dry. For the first time in months, I shave and run my hand over my smooth jaw, satisfied.
Stepping outside, I notice the sky’s fading warmth as evening approaches. I walk alongside my flower path and find Molly asleep in a camp chair, her muzzle resting on the arm.
“Good girl,” I say, patting her head. She’s worn herself out in the elements all day, burning off energy, engaging her senses with new smells, and enjoying her newfound freedom.
I light my fire pit, watching flames ignite the seasoned wood I pulled from the bin under the van. The crackle no longer disturbs me because I’m in control of this fire.
I turn at the sound of a car horn beeping in the distance. “She’s here,” I whisper excitedly to my canine companion. Molly opens one eye and stays curled up comfortably on the chair. She can’t be bothered, which makes me chuckle. I touch my smooth face again and tuck my hair behind my ears before I stand confidently next to my camper, lit up in the glimmer of twinkling fairy lights. I cross my arms at my chest with my feet planted wide and wait for her.
Keri’s silhouette cuts sharply against the glowing horizon atop the hill near the house. The sky behind her blazes with scorching oranges and molten golds along the lower clouds, fading upward into soft violet, rose, and the deepening indigo of night. I used to think Pacific Coast sunsets were magnificent, but there’s something magical about a Southern sunset. The beauty of Keri and the sky is almost too much to take in. My heart thrums rapidly.
Keri is a smart woman. The kind of woman who confidently sashays down the street with business on her mind and a genuine smile on her face. Meanwhile, my only plans each day are with my dog and where we’re going to sleep for the night, or finding a place to refill my rig with fresh water. We’re so different. Keri works on a computer and wears pencil skirts and high heels. She’s lived in the same small town her entire life. I drive a camper van on backroads and wear torn flannel shirts and hiking boots while taking random photos of nature and inanimate objects that catch my eye. But it doesn’t matter how different we are… I’m attracted to her. More so than I ever thought I could be.
I watch her follow the flower path, stopping to gather blooms into a colorful bouquet. When she reaches me, her eyes are wide with wonder. My stomach tightens in a knot. She’s so beautiful in this romantic lighting, and I’m tempted to grab my camera. Instead, I stand there with my heart in my hands, holding on to the moment, breathing deeply with my focus on her.
“What have you done?” she asks. Her lips tug at the corners of her mouth in a trembling smile.
Slowly, I approach her and slide my hands down her arms. She’s wearing a soft jacket over a pink shirt, jeans, and white sneakers. Her blonde hair hangs loosely over her shoulders, and I notice she’s foregone her usual lip gloss. The way the waning light hovers behind her makes her look like a dreamy watercolor painting.
“I want to show you my appreciation,” I reply.
“For what?”
“The house. Your company. Everything.” I cup her cheek and trace her lips with my finger. She lowers the bouquet and touches my face.
“You shaved.”
“Mmhmm,” I mumble, entranced by her soft skin. The way she drags the tips of her fingers across my jaw sends tendrils of heat through my bloodstream.
“I missed you.”
We’re so close, I catch her scent—berries and vanilla. “I missed you, too, Keri.”
She presses her forehead against mine, and I lean down to kiss her gently. I want to bottle up this feeling. Her body, soft and warm against my chest while dusk settles all around us. The firewood crackling, nocturnal animals and insects stirring. For a moment, I’m suspended between savoring this peace and a sudden urgency. If I don’t tell her my story now, I’m afraid she’ll vanish before my eyes.
“I don’t want you to be lonely,” she whispers against my ear. “Driving by yourself across the country in your van… I hate thinking of you all alone.”
“I’m not alone. I have Molly.”
