Page 7 of His to Cherish
Chapter 2
Death changed things.
For some, those changes were temporary. For days after Derrick’s funeral, a dense cloud hung low and heavy over the halls of Latham Hills Middle School. Laughter was scarce and tears fell often. The school administration brought in grief counselors, available throughout the school day for anyone who needed to talk.
I didn’t know if they helped. Kids in middle school had a natural tendency not to open up to adults, especially strangers. But every time I walked into the guidance area at the school for the first week, there were always students sitting in the chairs in the hallway, waiting to be seen.
The second week, three seventh-grade girls were sitting in the library, pretending to flip through their history books, but mostly they were whispering. I didn’t know what they whispered about, probably about what girls enjoyed at that young age—boys, makeup, and gossip about other girls.
Their quiet giggles rang through the air as loud as the fire alarm that hung on the wall above my desk.
My head jerked in surprise at the foreign sound. I didn’t have the heart to shush them or send them a warning glare like I normally would.
I smiled. I cried a couple of silent tears. Their happiness shouldn’t be minimized just because someone else’s life was lost.
Shane came in and sat with me every day. I didn’t know why, because we didn’t speak. The first day he returned to school after the funeral, I watched him hesitantly weave his way through the library with a paper bag in hand.
He lifted his lunch bag and an eyebrow in question while he gestured to the chair next to me at my L-shaped desk.
I pressed my lips together and nodded.
We didn’t say a word until he started to leave.
He tossed his lunch into the garbage can and paused next to my desk as if he was debating whether to say something.
Before he could, I quietly whispered, “I’m here if you need me. Anytime.”
He nodded once, sniffed, and ran his finger under his nose.
Tears fell down my cheeks that day, too. It seemed I did that a lot these days.
I didn’t want to. Derrick’s death had such a weighted impact on my heart. I knew the last vision I had of him was forever ingrained in my brain. Every time I closed my eyes he was there—his body, bleeding and twisted into unnatural shapes. I heard their screams in my dreams.
Shane came every day at lunchtime. He didn’t tell me why, but I suspected it was because he and Derrick used to always eat together. Shane was just as well liked as Derrick had been and was just as good at sports and school. I figured he’d open up when he was ready.
But I assumed he didn’t want the reminder of his best friend not being at the lunch table. Perhaps it was also because, for some reason, the accident bonded Shane to me in a way that he knew no one else would understand.
—
Sweat dripped down my neck even though my hair was pulled into a ponytail. The sun that promised winter was finally over warmed my skin and made my shirt cling to me as I worked in my front yard. We were in the midst of record-breaking early spring temperatures, and I was taking advantage of the unseasonably hot weather to get a jump on my landscaping projects.
Perhaps there were more exciting things I could be doing on a Friday after work. I was twenty-seven and single, as Suzanne loved to remind me daily, but my body was worn out and exhausted.
Yet I couldn’t be idle. It was a family curse. I had never been one to sit around and have a “lounge day” where you gorged yourself with ice cream and cheesy Lifetime romance movies. My mom always claimed I didn’t have any “sit” in me. She was right.
Three weeks after Derrick’s death, I still saw his mangled body lying against my curb whenever I found myself with little to do.
Thankfully, the weather was cooperative as I began to redo the landscaping around the front of the house. It needed new mulch, which was being delivered in the morning, and there were several bushes that had died from frost since Cory and I first moved in five winters ago.
It was a large project, one that, depending on the weather, could take me several weekends. My mind was tired and my body felt the stress of the last few weeks, but it felt good to be using muscles and working in the sun.
I was pulling weeds, cursing at a dandelion that refused to budge in the dirt, when a deep, rough engine rumbled behind me. I ignored it, thinking someone had pulled into my neighbor’s drive next door or across the street.
Then the engine cut off and I heard a door open and slam shut. My head turned in the direction of the sound and my eyes flew wide open. Aidan Devereaux had rounded the front of his truck, now parked in my driveway, and stood at the passenger side, a tool belt hanging from his hips, chewing his lip and staring at one of my ruined evergreen shrubs.
I quickly climbed to my feet, dusting the dirt off my hands even though it was useless. I’d been outside for an hour without gloves and I had mud caked to my palms and underneath my nails.
I wiped the back of my hand across my forehead, brushing my sweaty bangs off my face and out of my eyes.
