My head was lowered in embarrassment. But then I felt Cael’s arm tense underneath mine, a sharp breath escaping his lips. I looked up. I exhaled a quick breath too at the sight before me—the view that had captured Cael’s attention. A green patchwork quilt of English countryside stretched before us. Trees of all shades of green and browns, stone walls, and snow-covered bare branches made an oil painting from the view. A mist roiled over the ground, like the sky had lowered to join with the earth for a few sacred hours.
It was utterly beautiful.
“Everyone grab a drink of water, and let’s keep going,” Gordon said, breaking through my admiration. As I went to take off my backpack, I realized my arm was still threaded through Cael’s, holding on like he was my lifeline.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, flustered, as I quickly withdrew my arm. I busied myself with my water. When I glanced up, I caught Cael’s intense gaze locked onto me, but I quickly ducked my head. My cheeks felt set ablaze. My first thought was that Ida would be screaming in excitement right now, making suggestive comments and egging me on.
She had texted me last night, and Cael had ended up being the subject.
IDA:
How’s England?
ME:
Cold and wet, spooky and Gothic. It’s beautiful.
IDA:
And what are the others on the trip like?
ME:
Lovely. Hurt. Some quiet and reserved. Others not so much.
IDA:
And what about the tall, dark hottie with the tattoos?
Her question gave me permission to reflect on Cael. I’d heard him outside at the lake. Screaming as he threw things into the water. And then I’d heard his silence. When his fury must have ebbed and another emotion took over. It made me sad.
ME:
Angry
I sent that message but then remembered when he’d turned to me in the room and only desolation remained in his pained eyes. Just for a second, but it had been there. A second of his tattered, exposed soul.
IDA:
It happens. Remember Daddy was real angry for a while
I recalled Daddy after Poppy had passed. He was so mad at the world for taking his baby away. It was awful seeing him that way, but I knew the man who lay underneath. I knew that hotheaded man wasn’t who he was in his soul and that he would return to us again. Maybe … maybe the Cael who’d met my eyes in the living room was a short glimpse of the lost boy beneath.
IDA:
He may need a friend. Someone to be there for him while he gets through it. Someone who understands
I stared at Ida’s message. My pulse raced at that obvious suggestion.
ME:
Maybe
IDA:
Keep me informed on the climb! I can’t believe they have you scaling mountains!
I smiled at the memory of Ida’s messages as I drank in the idyllic view before me. She was such a romantic. Always seeing the good in people. Then I immediately thought of Poppy. She would have said the same about Cael too. Poppy was a helper. She would have taken one look at Cael and would have made it her mission to help him, help him through the pain he was so clearly feeling. She did that for me so many times growing up.
For a moment, that thought filled me with a heady kind of lightness, remembering her that way. How much she’d adored her family. How intensely she’d loved us all, loved the world. How much she’d loved Rune—right until her very last breath. But like on most days over the past four years, that happy thought soon turned into the gut-wrenching memory of seeing her on that bed, looking out of the window, broken and frail, death looming over her, breathing labored.
Any heat the climb had brought to me was quickly washed away by a spear of ice chasing down my spine. With shaking hands, I pushed my water bottle away and closed my eyes.
Just once … just once, I wanted to think of her and not feel beaten, not feel bruised. I wanted to remember her as she used to be—perfect, joyful, full of life. Not sick or sad or fighting to remain positive when there was nothing but tragedy awaiting at the end of her story.
Remembering her on her deathbed haunted me. It would wake me up in the middle of night. And every time I awoke, for a split moment, I would always believe I’d only had a nightmare and that Poppy was in her room, safely tucked up in bed.
Then I’d remember, and I’d lose her all over again. I lost her repeatedly, each morning when I woke and had to be reminded that she was gone. Every significant moment that happened to me, I would want to tell her. Every song I knew she’d like, and she wasn’t here to hear it. Every piece of classical music I heard, and picturing her with her cello, eyes closed, head swaying, completely lost to the melody.
For four years, I hadn’t watched an orchestra live. That was Poppy’s stolen dream, and it felt like it would be a betrayal to watch one. I could barely listen to classical music without crumbling.
It was one of the worst things, I thought, when you lost someone. Having good news to share, and for a second—just one borrowed second of peace—being excited to tell them. Before reality inevitably crashed down, and you were reminded that you would never tell them anything again. And the good news you wanted to share suddenly didn’t seem so exciting anymore. In fact, it felt like a stab in the chest, and you no longer looked forward to anything significant happening to you ever again.
A loved one’s death wasn’t a onetime thing that you had to endure. It was an endless cycle. A cruel Groundhog Day that burned away at your heart and soul until there was nothing left but scorched flesh where they once had been.
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.