Chapter 201 Death

Chapter 201 Death
Two years later
It's New Year's Day, and it's cold enough that my fingers ache inside my gloves.
I'm on one knee in front of your grave, arranging a large bouquet of fresh flowers against the stone. There's some lavender tucked between the others, because apparently I can't bring myself to come here without incorporating some part of Lily into whatever I'm carrying.
I do this quite a lot, I think you'd make fun of me for it. Actually, I know you would. I look down at myself and snort softly. "Before you get any ideas," I say, "I'm still not proposing."
I say that every time I come here and end up on one knee. Usually, I smile, this time, the smile doesn't quite survive. My eyes move to your name.
“RYAN ASHBROOK
A life deeply loved.”
Two years and I still hate how final it looks. Your parents had considered having you buried back home, closer to where you grew up. Then they'd asked me what I thought you'd want because I knew you best. And because I'm selfish, I told them you'd want to stay here. You'd want me close.
I knew it was true. Or at least, I needed it to be true.
"Happy New Year," I murmur. I stay there for another moment before reaching into my bag. "I brought you something."
I pull out a copy of my book. ‘A Life in Fragments.’ The cover is still so new that I almost don't want to touch it too much. I run my fingers over the title, then I open it. The dedication is on the first page. I don't need to read it. I know every word, but I look at it anyway.
"I dedicated it to you," I tell you quietly. "Of course I dedicated it to you." My thumb traces the edge of the page. "It's a little sad, though. Sorry." My voice catches slightly. "I tried to make it less sad, but I failed."
It took longer than I thought it would. There were a lot of crying breaks. More than I'd ever admit to anyone except you. Sometimes I'd write three pages and then spend an hour staring at the wall. Sometimes I'd manage a paragraph before I had to put the laptop away because suddenly every word looked like you. But it's finished now. Published. A real book sitting in my hands.
"Vivienne Hansen talked about it on that interview show she was on," I tell you. "Which was nice. She admitted she was a fan." I look down at the book again. "I might start my own publishing house."
I shrug.
"I'm not sure yet. I'm still thinking about it."
Then I go quiet, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. The cemetery stretches around me, grey and still beneath the winter sky. Cemetery. That's where you are now. That's where you've been for two years.
I rub a hand over my forehead. I always imagine this differently. I imagine that eventually I'll come here and tell you about my life without choking on every other sentence. I imagine being able to sit beside your grave and talking to you the way I used to talk to you. Normally...casually. Like you might interrupt me at any moment to point out that I'm being dramatic. Apparently, that day isn't today.
I lower myself onto the cold ground. "Your parents are doing okay," I say. And I do what I always do, I bring you up to date. Your mum is still making too much food. Your dad is still pretending he doesn't like having people fuss over him. Ember is still a menace.
"She's getting extra bratty," I tell you. "But don't worry. She's okay"
I smile.
"Chloe graduated high school. She invited me." I look down at my hands. "I went. She's still carrying herself like she expects the world to ask too much of her. And she's already read the book. She likes it. And since she was your student, I'm choosing to believe you'd have liked it too."
I sit there for a while longer before reaching into my bag again. This time, I pull out the glass jar and just stare at it. I'd driven through the night to get this. It took me more than an hour to find the place. I nearly gave up twice, but I didn't. I wasn't leaving without it.
"I almost went for this so many times," I tell you. My fingers tighten around the jar. Much sooner than this, there were days when I was certain it was exactly what I needed. That if I could just hold it, just read what we'd written, I'd somehow feel closer to you. Then there were days when life was unexpectedly good. Too good. I'd laugh at something stupid. I'd have a good day. I'd catch myself enjoying a meal or a song or a morning without immediately thinking about how much I wanted to tell you about it. And then I'd get scared that I was forgetting you. So I'd think about going there and getting the jar. Opening it. Proving to myself that you were still somewhere inside my memory exactly as I'd left you.
"But I didn't," I whisper. I set the jar carefully in my lap. "I waited."
The lid twists open, inside are the letters. The pages we'd folded and protected and buried among the trees because, at the time, two years had seemed like such an impossibly long distance into the future.
I reach in and take yours first. And then I see my name written in your handwriting.
That's all it takes. My throat closes and for a second, I can't move. I stare at those letters as though they're something alive. Something that might breathe if I hold it carefully enough. I've learned how to push through this.
Grief support taught me that. Not how to stop hurting, just how to keep moving while I do. So I breathe, then I unfold the paper. The sound is painfully familiar.
I remember this. I remember where we were. I remember what the room smelled like. I remember the pen you used and the expression on your face. I remember all of it with such terrifying clarity that, for a moment, it feels as though two years haven't passed at all. And that's the cruelest part. Because I remember writing my letter, I remember folding it. I remember putting it into this jar.
I remember believing I'd get to open it with you. Believing you'd be sitting beside me when we did.
But you're not. I'm here alone. And I'm the one who has to read my letter to you.