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I nod. Even though she’s not looking at me. My hand clenches and unclenches, aching to reach for hers. But I can’t do it to either of us.
She finally turns to me, tears in her eyes, and we watch each other. One tear falls. It leaves a wet trail down her cheek, and I reach to wipe it away. I can’t stop myself from stealing a few more touches. I’m angry with her—so angry. But relieved that she’s okay. I’m furious with myself and the way I gave up. But I know the best thing for her isn’t me. And I will do my damnedest to give her that if that’s what she wants.
The process of picking Ruby up is short and without ceremony. It’s odd that she was a part of both of our lives in different ways, and now, she isn’t anymore. Now, she’s alive in our memories, but as we age, she won’t be. She will always be who she was while we go on to have new experiences and life changes.
Wryn is sobbing, bent over the urn as she holds it in her lap. I’m caught between pulling her into my arms and onto my lap or letting her be. I choose the latter. I can’t complicate things any more than they already are.
My chest aches as I listen to her, my body tight with the wrongness of doing nothing. I’m the worst sort of man. And the knowledge of that keeps me resolute in my decision.
As soon as we arrive back at my home, she climbs out, and I round the back of the vehicle, standing in her path. She looks up at me, her eyes swollen and red, her cheeks flushed, and I know she’s not only crying over her friend, but also her life. It’s written all over her face.
Against my better judgment, I envelop her in my arms. She moves the urn so I can pull her against my chest, and I hold her. I memorize the way her body forms to mine. The way our breaths sync and even the sound of her sniffles. I don’t know how long we stand like that before she pulls back, staring up at me. I run my thumbs underneath both of her eyes, and she presses up on her tiptoes, laying a gentle kiss on my lips. Barely a whisper of a touch, but my skin stings with the contact.
Then, she’s turning away, walking inside, and I follow her in.
An hour later, Geo finds me.
“She’s gone.” He lays her ring on the table beside me, and it glitters in the low lamplight.
I turn away, raising a glass of bourbon to my lips.
31
WRYN
Two Months Later
“Order up for table three,” Oscar says as he takes a dirty towel and wipes it across his forehead.
I grab the plates and turn, hurrying to deliver them before they cool even a bit. Table three is our regulars, who are crotchety, old men who buy their breakfast at the Heywood Diner every single morning. They are happy unless something changes, and then I can expect it to reflect in my tip. I like them though. Their no-nonsense outlook on life speaks to me. They are simple men who ask for simple things, and I crave that.
A simple life. No mystery and intrigue, no danger lurking around every corner. That was the old Wryn.
New Wryn wears a powder-blue dress with a white apron over it and delivers diner food to customers, and then she goes home to her tiny one-bedroom apartment every night to take online night classes on her secondhand computer. I was able to get a scholarship, and that has helped tremendously with costs. I think this is what I was supposed to do. Everything has fallen into place. A job opening, a scholarship, a low-cost apartment in a good area. I even won free coffee for a year from the local coffee shop down the street from my new home.
And I love it.
I do.
I let out a sigh at the lull in the breakfast rush, resting my elbows on the counter as I glance around to see what needs to be done. I grab a towel and wipe down the front counter, clearing away dirty dishes and refilling the napkin container.
“Any plans for the weekend?” Riley asks me as she rushes past with some plates in hand.
She’s the one waitress that I’ve really clicked with since working here. She doesn’t ask me too much about myself, content to let me work through my past in peace. But she takes an interest in my life, and she’s even invited me out on occasion, but I’ve never taken her up on it.
“Studying,” I tell her as she walks back up to the pass-through, where we wait for orders.
“Lame,” she says. “Come out with me.”
“I’d love to—”
“Then, do it,” she says.
I laugh, wondering how to get out of it. It’s not that I don’t want to go out with her. I have no desire to be social in the first place. I’ve become a hermit, happy to work on my own goals in private and get close to no one.
“Come on. You can’t stay holed up forever. It will be fun. Just you and me. We can go dancing—”
“No dancing,” I say, not wanting to think of that night. “No clubs. I’ll go to a bar with you for a few drinks.”
