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“Ready to go?” Whit asks, holding a bundle of flowers in his hands. I don’t know where he got those, but my heart melts a little at the gesture. We’re going to go visit my mom’s grave before dinner. To be honest, I’ve been so distracted by Whit that the fact my mom died a year ago today almost slipped my mind. Almost. That kind of traumatic event is hard to forget.
“Yeah,” I say, shrugging on my Carhart jacket, and tugging my hat low on my head. I notice how Whit stares at me, those eyes assessing and concerned.
His hand slips through mine, and he leads me to the car, where he opens the door for me, and I slip inside.
Then he drives me the twenty minutes into town, where my mom was laid to rest. When he parks the car and kills the ignition, I lean back against the seat and rub my face.
“Why is this so hard?”
Whit doesn’t respond, and I look over at him.
“I don’t know what to say, Caleb. I’ve never been faced with the loss of someone I loved. But I know that if we love someone deeply, we can never really lose them. They become a part of us even though they might not be here in body.”
I stare at him, this wise man, and then swipe at my eyes. “Yeah. A part of me. I like that.” My voice breaks slightly, and I look out the window.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Caleb,” Whit says, his voice gentle and sweet, and I blink rapidly.
“We should go.”
As soon as we step from the car, I clutch Whit’s hand in mine and pull him through the graveyard until we finally stop in front of a simple marble stone.
Arabella Lee van Beek
“She was just forty,” I tell Whit, who crouches down and begins cleaning away the debris from the site. Even though he hates getting dirty, he obviously has no qualms about doing this for me. For my mom.
God, I’m so in love with this guy.
The thought shocks me so much that I can’t breathe for a minute. My heart clenching painfully in my chest. I have no business loving this man. And yet, I do. I can’t help it. He burrowed his way into my heart, and I’m not sure there’s a way to remove him without cutting a piece from me.
When Whit glances up from where he’s crouched, those eyes meeting mine, I bite back a sob.
Fuck.
If he notices my mini-meltdown, he doesn’t say anything. He probably thinks I’m emotional from the loss of my mom. And I am, but I know that I’m going to lose him too. Eventually. I’m not sure I can withstand the loss of both.
Whit reaches up for the flowers and sets them gingerly on in front of my mom’s name, and then says, “Nice to meet you, Ms. van Beek. I’m Whit.”
I exhale shakily and rub my eyes.
“Your son is amazing. You’d be proud,” he continues, pressing those fingers to her name.
Shit, this guy. I sniffle and bite down on my bottom lip to keep everything inside.
“Whit,” I whisper, and he looks up at me again. Pain and sympathy filter through those eyes, and I pull him into my arms. I clutch him to me, my tears falling quickly now. I bury my head against his neck and let it go, the sadness and loneliness that I’ve felt since she’s been gone. It’s a gaping hole that hasn’t really healed with time. I’ve just gotten used to the feeling of brokenness, the hopelessness.
Whit’s helped me live through it. He breathed life back into me.
“She would have loved you,” I manage to say, my voice broken and wobbly.
“I’m sure I would have loved her too. She made you, didn’t she?” he says, and I clutch onto him tighter and almost utter those three life-changing words but swallow them down.
Not here. Not now.
“Thank you,” I say instead. “For coming here. For the flowers.”
“Of course,” he replies and runs his hand across my neck and squeezes.
We stand like that for what feels like hours before we head back. The sun’s setting in the distance as we drive back to my aunt and uncle’s house, and I hold Whit’s hand the entire way home.
