Page 16 of On One Condition

Just pure and unconditional love.

Grief still raw and real overwhelms me. It’s amazing how so much can change in three months. How life moves on and yet you feel like you’re standing still. How everyone else’s life goes back to normal while some moments I struggle to simply breathe from the grief that consumes me without warning.

Grief, I thought I was familiar with given I never had a mother or father, but now realize that I never truly understood until I lost Pop. My rock.

That’s why I welcomed the distraction by helping Nita tonight. A chance to get out and away from the quiet and somewhat deafening solace that most nights are a comfort here.

And suffocating at other times.

Insects trill to the left of me and draw my focus to the land that has been a part of my family for decades. Our hands in the dirt, our sweat mixed with it, as we turned the fields each year. The fertile soil of this valley where lavender is planted in perfect rows, side by side. Year after year they survive the harshest weathers to thrive in the mildest of summers.

It’s where I spent my childhood learning the meaning of hard work, discipline, and sometimes defeat—all softened by Gran’s gentle hugs or Pop’s quiet love.

The stalks rustle in the breeze swooping down off the mountains.

Home.

The place I couldn’t wait to get away from fast enough. The place that called me back out of desperation and duty. The place that is a part of everything I am—good and bad.

And a place that sheltered me from the cruelty of the world. Cruelty I hadn’t been subjected to until Maxton Sharpe, Ledger’s dad, showed up on this very porch that night.

Ledger.

That’s a person I haven’t thought about in years. And I say person because to me, he’s been frozen in time—a teenage boy with floppy hair, most days a shirtless torso, and a smile that told me I was his whole world.

But he’s no longer a memory to recall. He’s here. In Cedar Falls. And according to him, he will be for a while.

And he wants to catch up.

Classic avoidance. Isn’t that why I drove endlessly tonight? Down road after road to avoid coming home to the quiet of this farm and the endless thinking it often prompts?

Driving with the windows down and the music blasting is so much easier than trying to figure out how seeing him again has made me feel.

I shake my head as I climb out of the car. It’s been a long damn day, and a glass of wine and some reality television might be the perfect way to unwind. To distract.

But as I round the car, the porch swing creaks and, for a second, despite being startled by its sound, I half expect to see Gran there waiting for me to come home.

“Jesus.” I jump when I see Nita, a bottle of wine in hand and a soft smile on her lips. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at Hank’s? Is everything okay?” My words come out in a tumble.

“Calm down, worrywart,” she says, holding out a red solo cup filled with wine as I climb the steps. “It’s past two. That’s how long you’ve been driving in circles and then sitting over there in that car of yours. You were so preoccupied you didn’t even see my car.” She points to where her car is on the side of the house.

“You’re right.” I have no problem admitting it to her. “Sorry.” I take the cup she’s offering and plop down on the swing beside her, the motion making it rock.

Crickets chirp around us, and I’m grateful for the silence Nita gives me as I let that first sip of wine settle in.

“You want to talk about it?” she finally asks. “About him?”

“Him?” I feign ignorance.

“Oh, come on.” She slaps my thigh playfully. “You and I both know that fine piece of man at the bar tonight is who has you overthinking, probably driving around aimlessly, singing Total Eclipse of the Heart at the top of your lungs.”

I shrug, hating that she’s right, before holding up the red solo cup to avoid her question. “This is classy.”

“You know how we do it.” She laughs and taps the edge of hers to mine. “So . . . do you want to explain to me why Mr. Sexy Man left you this for a tip?”

Nita holds up a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill and written in Sharpie across its face is a telephone number.

“Huh.” I wish I could say I feel indifference, but I feel anything but.