Her love for me was always secondary.
There was a time when I believed hearing her say “I love you” could mend every bruise and scar, that it could bridge the gaps and heal the wounds. But it was just a bandage over a wound that kept on bleeding until the truth bled right through—the truth that real love isn’t just a phrase.
It’s action. It’s character.
It’s meaning.
It’s…her.
Stevie.
My eyes pan to the enormous window overlooking the city. I stare out at the skyscrapers, the dazzling lights, the sun-kissed sky, as my mother’s footfalls grow farther away and the front door creaks open, then softly closes.
The gnawing quiet settles around me, and for the very first time, I imagine a future not dictated by past failures and unspoken regrets. The idea of possibility takes root as I envision rewriting the ending of my own story, choosing what I want over what I fear.
I’ve always had the power.
I just never knew what to do with it.
Closing my eyes, I collapse onto the couch and think about what Willa told me yesterday.
The title of the show, of our tragic love song, always made me feel—Come What May. It made me think of her, of that high school auditorium, of her laughter and smile and songful voice. But then I took all the things that made me human and buried them inside the pages of streaky ink and broken thoughts. I didn’t want it. I didn’t want the open wounds to fester and spread. Feelings felt like a curse, a disease with no cure.
But when you really break it down, I think that’s what life is all about.
Feeling.
Feeling everything: joy, heartbreak, grief, loss, friendship, and passion. Feelings aren’t a burden, no matter how much they hurt. They’re a privilege.
To feel is life’s greatest honor.
And I know now, the source of all of it…is love.
Chapter 43
Stevie
“Stevie!”
I show up on my parent’s doorstep at seven p.m. on the night before Thanksgiving with a plate of store-bought cookies, an overnight bag, and a bleeding, ruptured heart. I swear I feel the goopy pieces slogging down my chest and plunking into my stomach, inciting a wave of nausea to slam into me.
With everything that’s happened over the past week, I hadn’t even realized that Thanksgiving was tomorrow. The house smells like pumpkin-spice cake and savory casseroles as Joplin plows through the front door and tackles me with a hug.
“Hey,” I greet her, ambushed by her arms as I force a smile to lift. “Sorry I’m late.”
“We’ve been trying to call you all day. Almost thought you weren’t going to show.”
It’s always been tradition to spend the Wednesday before Thanksgiving together, baking pies and prepping side dishes, even after Joplin and I moved out. We’d dress up in turkey onesies and have a sleepover in our old bedrooms, eager for the holiday bustle to begin when the sun rose on Thanksgiving morning. But everything feels different this year. A fractured fairy tale.
Joplin studies me through the flickering porch light. “I left the apartment this morning, and you were still sleeping. I was going to wake you but figured you needed the rest.”
I pop my shoulders with a shrug. “I’m okay. It’s just been a process…reacclimating.”
When Misty picked me up from the airport last week, I was a mess. A broken, run-down mess. I could hardly speak through the snot-bubbling tears as I explained everything. A hug from my best friend was a small comfort, but the moment she dropped me off at the farmhouse and I took one look at the despicable actions of an anonymous stranger, I fell apart all over again.
The following five days were a whirlwind, repainting the siding, fixing up the landscape, replacing windows, and long nights filled with red wine and heart-to-hearts.
Then I spent the rest of the week holed up inside my apartment, wallowing and bereaved.
