I burst out laughing, knowing that was such a Scotty thing to want to do.
She lets out a small laugh and continues, “Karaoke, make your own wine, skydiving. So many things I can’t face doing alone. “
I link our fingers, and when I stroke my thumb over the back of hers, I realize how intimate the gesture is, but she doesn’t pull away.
“I’ll help you,” I offer.
“You’ll what?” she asks, confusion in her tone.
“I’ll help you complete the list. We’ll call it Scotty’s life list.” A flicker of hope spreads across her face.
“You’d do that for him? You’d help complete his list?’
“Yeah, I’d do anything for him…”
I move a little closer, and like a habit I can’t seem to stop when I’m around her, I act before thinking, cupping her jaw.
“And you. I’d do anything to help you, Tor.”
A beat passes, and I should pull away, but I don’t, and she doesn’t either. I think about how good it would feel to kiss her right now, how easy it would be to meld my mouth with hers and taste her, give her a reason to fight, to give life another go.
“Live a full life, Tor, then, when you get to see him again, you can tell him all about it.”
“Thank you,” she whispers, snapping me back to the present moment and stopping me from crossing that line; one I know I’d regret because Tori isn’t mine, could never be. She will forever be Scotty’s.
“We’ll do it together,” I confirm. “When I can, I’ll be here to support you, Tor, but I need you to try. I need you to fight. Can you do that for me?’
She nods.
“Words, Tor, I need to hear the words.”
“I’ll try, Noah. For you, for Trent, for me, I’ll fight.”
She wraps her arms around me, taking me by surprise, and I hold her tightly to my chest, inhaling her scent of cocoa butter and brown sugar as I nestle my nose into her damp hair.
She feels like safety; she feels like home.
Chapter Eighteen
Tori
Six months later
It’s been just over a year since I lost Trent and my baby. Nearly six months since Noah asked me to try, to fight. His words hit a nerve, and I knew he was right. Six months since he gave me the most meaningful gift I have ever received. I wear it daily, reaching for it when I lose my nerve or the day feels too much and I think of all the things that could have been, that should have been. Sometimes, I take it off and admire the small silver compass pendant with the diamond in the center, and then turn it over and rub my thumb over the engraved words.
Memento Vivere.
A phrase I have done my best to live by.
It wasn’t my fault what happened to me, but it is my responsibility to get back up, to fight, and heal. A lot has changed in the last six months: Harry, Jack, and Brad left the Marines, and Noah decided to stay, which upset me more than I cared to admit, but I shoved those thoughts to the back of my mind. Despite my many protests, I agreed to go to Texas to a wellness and healing retreat if Harry moved to Miami with the guys to open up their bar that they have been talking about for years. I couldn’t allow Harry to give up on his dreams and stop living life because of me. I spent a month there, tending to horses, having daily therapy. I was reluctant to open up initially, but when I did, I felt a weight lift off my shoulders. I’m not healed, far from it, but I have accepted that what happened wasn’t my fault; that losing my baby wasn’t something I could control, and that truly feels like the biggest breakthrough in my recovery.
Letting go of that guilt helped me heal enough to be able to get up every day. I started working for my dad’s security company part-time, remotely, just to get me back in the swing of things, and I have taken up daily runs with my friend, Hannah. Healing and recovering is about small steps; it’s a marathon, not a sprint. In the lead up to the first anniversary of Trent’s death, I feel like I’m in a better place than I was a few months ago, thanks to the support I’ve had.
My thoughts pull back to the present, and I focus on packing for my trip to Texas with Noah. He kept his word and agreed to help me with Trent’s life list, and first up is cliff diving. I close my suitcase and lie on top of it, fighting with the zipper. You’d think I had packed for a two-week vacation and not a short break, but I am who I am: a girl needs to be prepared. The familiar sound of Noah’s truck pulls up outside my apartment, and the anticipation of seeing him buzzes through my body. Myfriendship with Noah means the world to me, and I am grateful to have him on this journey with me. We have a twenty-hour road trip ahead of us, and we plan to stop off at a motel enroute. It’s a hot summer's day here in North Carolina, and I know it will be even warmer in Texas, so I have dug out my old denim shorts, paired them with a cropped t-shirt, my tanned cowgirl boots, and Trent’s old cowboy hat. He grew up on a farm, riding horses and tending to cattle. Wearing his hat this weekend will feel like I have a piece of him with me.
I drag my suitcase through my apartment and open the front door to find Noah waiting, dressed in a white t-shirt, dark blue jeans, and a baseball cap. The sight of him takes my breath away. I haven’t seen him in months; he’s been overseas and clearly somewhere hot by the golden glow of his tan, and for just a second, I forget to breathe.
He looks good.
