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The time stopped for him as he stared at her face, the rosiness of her skin, the way her wavy brown hair framed her face effortlessly. But it was nothing compared to how beautiful she was on the inside, her optimism, empathy, and compassion. What he felt for her ran so deep, it ached everywhere.
He looked at her lips for a second, and at the back of his head, he kissed her till she was weak in the knees, till she felt it in her core. His heart hurt with every beat.
Why did she have to be so beautiful?
"Me too," she said with a pout. He blinked. "Love you!"
Sadness drenched him. He paused, gulped, and said, "D-d-ditto."
Giselle didn't acknowledge the stammer, but his heart thudded. He was supposed to stay calm. He was supposed to outsmart his speech problem. He could never let it win, even if it meant refusing to feel anything.
After waving goodbye, Giselle ran out of her house, and Chris headed toward his home for a nap. He knew this was going to be a long week, and he was not looking forward to it.
Chapter 3
The sun hid behind the dark clouds, casting shadows all over the small village of Petrichor. Green leaves on the trees sang a mellifluous song and danced with the whips of cool breeze. Milky fog blanketed the hills, hiding their peaks from view.
Giselle slammed the door of her passenger seat shut, making it groan. She closed her eyes, a small smile on her face despite the heaviness settling inside her heart. They were in Petrichor.
She looked at the white-painted house in front of her, nostalgia hitting her like a brick. She didn't remember much before the age of five when they'd permanently moved to Phoenix. But every year, without skipping, Giselle, Abbott, and her mother Rose used to visit Petrichor for a week. Now it was only the two of them left on their yearly visits to Rose's grave.
Abbott placed his hand on Giselle's back when she stood staring at the house for a bit too long. She smiled sideways at her father, then they entered past the brown main door. It looked smaller than she remembered, certainly small in comparison to their bungalow back in the city, but there was something warm about this cottage-like house with its small backyard that brought back memories of happiness and laughter every time she was there.
Giselle took in the familiar scent of wet grass and coal smoke as she looked around her childhood home. The mirrors shone, the clean, wooden floor creaked beneath her shoes, and the furniture sparkled.
Their elderly housekeeper, Mrs. Whitman, hurried toward them from the kitchen. "Oh, welcome, welcome!" she said, giving a small bow to Abbott who reciprocated with a nod of his own. Then she wrapped up Giselle in a warm embrace.
She'd been the housekeeper of this house and her mother's lady's maid (and a companion) for as long as Giselle could remember. After Rose's death, she lived with them in Phoenix for another year, before Abbott transferred her to Petrichor to live in this house. Giselle wondered if it was because she reminded him of Rose too much.
Mrs. Whitman placed her hands on Giselle's face and frowned, her wrinkles getting more prominent. "You've lost so much weight, dear."
Giselle smiled at her. "I look the same to me, Mrs. Whitman."
She clicked her tongue. "Nonsense. We'll have to fix it." She turned to Abbott. "I hope everything is in order, Mr. Beaumont."
He nodded. "I hope you're well, Ruth. How have you been this year?"
"Oh, good good. There was nothing to do, so I spent most of the time with my grandchildren." Giselle smiled because that was one of the main reasons why her father had transferred her to Petrichor. "I have also been visiting Rose's grave every week with a bouquet of red roses, just as you asked me to."
"Thank you. You're irreplaceable," said Abbott with a small smile.
Her cheeks tinted a slight shade of pink, and she said, "Well, lunch will be served in a few minutes, and then I'll be out of your hair."
She retreated to the kitchen, and Giselle let out a sigh. It wasn't just Abbott she reminded Rose of. She remembered Mrs. Whitman laughing with her mother as they created new recipes in the kitchen or when they'd garden together. Mrs. Whitman had even nursed Rose on her deathbed, shedding silent tears at what was to come.
The chauffeur walked past them with their luggage. Abbott took his bag himself, uttering words of gratitude, and Giselle's backpack was delivered to her room.
She heard her father exhale a shaky breath, and without a word, he walked toward his room, his back hunched and shoulders slumped. She stared at him till his door closed, then let out a sigh of her own. Folding her arms over her pink shirtdress, she ignored the tightness inside her chest or the sting in the corners of her eyes. She hated what Petrichor did to him. She hated everything that reminded him of his wife. Ever since her mother had died, it was as if she'd also lost a part of her father.
The death of a loved one was a wound that never healed, not even with the band-aid of time. It left a void behind—one that no one could fill. It got bearable with every passing day, but every time that wound was touched, the blood oozed out.
She headed to her room next to her father's. The wall beside her door was dotted with picture frames that told a nostalgic story. There were photos of when she was a little girl. In some pictures, her mother held her close to her chest; in one, Giselle was dressed like a star for School's play and posed in front of the camera; and in others, her parents stood side by side, smiling whole-heartedly.
Her mother's soft voice rang through her ears in echoes, consuming her whole.
"Giselle, stop it. Stop running. Abbott, why don't you say anything to her?" her mother had said.
"What have I done?" asked Abbott in a panic, peaking from his newspaper. Giselle had giggled at their banter.
