She squeezes my fingers. “Good.”
I clear my throat and come clean. “I’m on a self-imposed sabbatical, Keri.”
Her pretty brows knit together as she allows the words to sink in. “A sabbatical? Why?”
I drop to the ground, arms on my knees, hands linked together. I want to tell her everything, but the words stick. Am I afraid of what she’ll think, or just not ready to let her see that side of me? My stomach churns as I watch her take a breath, eyes never leaving mine. She deserves honesty—but the truth feels tangled and raw.
“Are you in trouble?”
“No.”
“Are you okay?”
I look away. “I’m doing better. It just takes time.”
She nods as if she understands. “I should’ve taken a sabbatical after my dad died. Instead, I bulldozed my way into the family business, thinking I could change the entire real estate landscape on my own.” She quietly laughs to herself and stares off into the purple fields.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Keri. One thing I’ve learned being on the road is that we all need quiet spaces so we can remember how to listen… to ourselves, to the world, to each other.”
She nods again. “That makes sense.”
“We weren’t built for constant noise or work. Our nervous systems crave birdsongs, bees, wind, and waves. Even pretty lavender fields.” A breeze floats across our shady spot, causing a whooshing sound through the overhead vegetation, continuing in waves over the purple meadow. It’s just as relaxing as watching ocean tides crashing on a beach in California. We both look out over the gorgeous flowers at the same time. “When the world feels too loud, you gotta step outside. Take a journey and let the earth reset you. That’s what I’ve been doing.”
We’re both quiet for a moment, and I wonder what she’s thinking. Her brow furrows slightly as she pans the lavender fields, lips pressed together, her hair fluttering back from her shoulders. She’s so pretty, I’m tempted to grab my camera and take more photos of her while she’s in a contemplative state. But I don’t want to deceive her like that other crappy photographer did. I’ll always let her know when my camera is aimed her way.
“Do you remember who you were before everything got heavy? Before you decided to take a break?” she asks.
I blink back at her, my voice scratched with emotion. “Of course I do.”
“Me too. There was a time I didn’t overthink every choice. I didn’t wake up already tired,” she whispers.
I’m totally tracking with her, adding, “A time when you believed things would get better just because you wanted them to, right?”
Her face lights up. “Yes! But life wore me down. One day, I looked in the mirror and thought, ‘When did Angel Face disappear?’”
I nod, grateful we’re in sync, though she doesn’t know my story yet. I stay quiet, just listening. She’s wise beyond her years.
“There’s a version of my life that doesn’t exist anymore. And the weirdest part? I’ve spent my entire life growing up here in Heartsboro. It’s my home. But after I returned from college, I realized it wasn’t a place I wanted to come back to anymore. But by then, I had no choice.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, grateful for her openness.
“Before I left, everything in my life had a certain feeling to it. My grandmother was here. My childhood bedroom. My trophies and tiaras. My longtime friends. My dad and his entrepreneurial dreams...” Her voice trails off with wistfulness. “And then four years later, when I came back, everything was totally different. My grandmother was gone, my friends had moved on, my father was stressed and needed my help.”
“You grew up. Things change,” I offer.
“It was more than that. And when he suddenly died from a heart attack and left me all alone in this world, I realized those romanticized childhood feelings I used to have died with him. But here’s the real kicker: I didn’t realize I’d miss those feelings so desperately until my family was gone.”
I’m frozen in place, her words hitting close to home. My throat tightens as I battle my emotions. Keri can’t know just how much our stories echo each other—how we’re both alone, both grieving the shadows of lives left behind. For a moment, I can barely speak past the lump in my throat. “If you could have a do-over, would you have come back after college to help your father?”
She shrugs, her devotion to her dad on full display. “As I said, I had no choice. I’m his only child. His legacy. After everything he did for me, I couldn’t hang him out to dry. You make sacrifices for the people that you love.”
I can sense us bonding, recognizing in Keri a similar complicated depth. We both feel too much. I want to tell her how I crave space and silence as much as I need connection. I’ve been a nomad for the last two years. Restless. Someone desperate to disappear. I’ve learned to vanish for days without talking to anyone, driving across the country, holing up in campgrounds, or lingering in deserted meadows wrestling with the demons chasing me. I’ve had a melancholy dissatisfaction with stability since I left California. I deliberately chose this life on the road for privacy and space. My need for solitude isn’t some romantic quirk. Up until this moment, it’s been a heartbreaking challenge.
“Adam?”
I look up at her. “Huh?”
“Have you ever experienced grief before?”
