The memories are a gut punch but not unwelcome.
Sailing out on his gorgeous yacht to spot whales in the summer.
Story time in front of his huge roaring fireplace in a library too beautiful for life—he kept us spellbound, reading Greek mythology or sometimes just Tolkien or Narnia.
He made my crush on old books an obsession.
He’d feed me, tease me, and make me feel like I belonged.
He wasn’t perfect—who is?—but that man could make people laugh or break down in tears.
I can’t believe he’s gone.
Despite the pristine summer day, the world feels colder.
Every news article screams it, too, taking my disbelief and shoving it down my throat.
Real Estate Titan Leonidas Blackthorn Dead at 85 From Cancer.
Blackthorn Family Reeling over Sudden Loss of Patriarch Leonidas Blackthorn.
Seeing it written out makes me regret the churro, but I force myself to read until my eyes sting and my belly hurts.
I can’t go to pieces like the emotional little kitten I normally am.
When Margot gets here, I need to be strong.
I also need to be up to date on the news. I can work on coming to terms with it later.
Leonidas Blackthorn is dead!
But Margot has it rougher than I do, even if it’s been a few days. The family waited to make it public, but it still came without warning.
I mean, yes, we all knew he was old and he’d gotten kind of reclusive the last few years. But I had no clue he was sick—and I don’t think Margot did, either.
Not until it happened.
From what she’s said, no one had a chance to catch their breath before he was hospitalized and gone less than twenty-four hours later.
I shake my head as a text comes in.
Margot telling me she’s just a few minutes away.
When my macchiato comes out, I order a vanilla latte with oat milk for Margot. Then with both drinks in hand, I head to the back of the café for some privacy, where old paperbacks are stacked on towering bookcases, almost hiding our small table.
I sigh.
This place feels like home today, a comfort when we need it most.
I return to my bittersweet scrolling on social media until the bell on the door jingles.
In comes Margot, dressed down in a pair of faded jeans and a burgundy t-shirt.
Nother usual look.
Oh no. The damage must be massive.
She keeps her oversized shades plastered on and I resist the itch to pull them off her face to see how red her eyes are.
