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“I got up and turned off the shower. I changed into dry clothes and braided my hair. And I curled up in my bed and went to sleep. I thought it would take me a while to actually fall asleep, but I welcomed the darkness. I craved it, really—the peacefulness of sleep. I worried I’d have nightmares, but I didn’t dream at all. It was just . . . emptiness. And when I woke up the next morning, I thought maybe it was all a bad dream. Maybe Dad was downstairs in the kitchen making his breakfast like he did every morning. But he wasn’t, and I relived the loss and the pain again.”
She sighs and tilts her face toward the sky. I see the tears then, steadily sliding down her cheeks.
“That’s the thing they don’t tell you about loss. Every morning, you live through it again. Every morning when you wake up it’s like ripping off a scab too early. I thought grief and pain would be something you get through. Like, if I can just get to the other side of it, I’d be fine. But I’ve decided there is no other side. There is no getting through. There’s just . . . acceptance. It’s not something you get through, it’s something you face. Something you endure.”
She turns to face me, the light of the moon making her skin pale, and the freckles stand out on her cheeks and nose. Her eyes are almost hauntingly green, and so bright from the tears still sliding down her cheeks.
“You know what else I’ve learned?” she asks softly.
“What?”
“Grief is just another form of love. You can’t have one without the other. In a way, it’s all the love you still have left to give, but nowhere to go anymore. I think that’s why you feel it in every fiber of your being—every cell in your body. It’s just looking for somewhere to go.”
I think maybe the bravest act we can do is choose to love. Despite the possible loss and heartbreak, choosing to love anyway is the greatest form of bravery, and I have spent years being a coward. I lean back on the palms of my hands and inspect the night sky above us. I find the few constellations I know, drawing patterns with my eyes. After a few minutes, I feel Lucy move closer to me, her warmth seeping into my side. Her shoulder brushes mine and I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of her.
I wrap my arm around her, pulling her close and resting my chin on top of her head.
“I didn’t feel anything but anger when my mom died,” I confess.
“Why anger?” Lucy wonders aloud. “I mean, I get it. I was mad in my own way too, but it didn’t last long.”
“I was angry for years. Angry at the doctors for not trying harder to find a cure for the disease that is just wreaking havoc on our population. Angry at my mom for not choosing to do chemo the last few months, for not fighting as hard as I thought she should. Angry at my dad for not somehow forcing her to, even though my mom was as stubborn as they come and wouldn’t have listened anyway. And I was angry at him for the way he shut down after, leaving me to take care of everything. That shouldn’t have been on me. Mostly though, I was angry at myself. For so many reasons.”
“Are you still angry?” she asks after a few minutes.
I sigh and look down at her, her knees are still pulled to her chest, arms still resting on top. She’s staring out at the ocean, but she’s not crying anymore.
“I’m not as angry as I used to be, but it’s still there. Now all that’s really left is self-loathing.”
“Why are you so harsh with yourself?”
I lean forward and pull my legs up, resting my elbows on my knees. I let out a breath and grab a handful of sand, watching it trickle through my fingers.
“Because it’s easier to pick myself apart than let someone else do it. I knew I was a coward for locking myself away from anyone who tried to get close enough to see all my broken pieces. But I couldn’t stop it. And eventually, I just got better at being angry and broken. It was easier to stay in the hole I had dug for myself than find a way to climb out of it.”
“Do you think you will ever be able to give yourself a little grace?”
“I’m trying,” I whisper. “This is me trying, Lucy.”
“Wyatt?”
“Yeah, Lucy?”
“I’m going to tell you something, and I don’t want you to freak out.”
“Okay?”
“I love you. And I don’t expect you to say it back. I’m saying it because I feel it and I’m tired of holding it in. I’m saying it because it doesn’t depend on your reciprocation. I will love you, Wyatt Hayes, whether you love me or not. Whether you love yourself or not.”
There are so many things I want to say, but my mind stutters on that last sentence.
“Perceptive as always,” she teases, “but my love can only go so far. At some point you’re going to have to figure out how to love yourself. How to forgive yourself.”
She stands and kisses the top of my head. I sit for another second, watching the waves. Then I stand and jog to catch up with her.
“Lucy?”
“Yes, Wyatt?”
