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She didn’t want to let go. She smelled like scrambled eggs and
sunshine and a little bit like the echo of Giana’s own perfume
and laundry soap. She hadn’t showered after coming back
home. Her scent was still clinging to her. That didn’t just make
Giana feel dark and primal. It made her feel raw and peaceful
and almost happy.
“It was so good, but I was a kid,” she whispered into
Coralyn’s hair. “I didn’t know any different.” Coralyn’s arms
tightened around her, and she bent her head to the soft, silky
swell of her neck. “But I’m not a kid now. I didn’t know how
to grieve then. I still don’t.”
“Does anyone?”
“Maybe I should get help, but fuck, I don’t want to be one
of those people in therapy.”
“Then don’t be.” Coralyn pulled back so they could look at
each other. “If that’s not going to help, then don’t do it. There
are so many other ways. My dad always said that happiness
was a lifelong process. What would he tell me to do if I was
you? Probably to read. To read what so many other people
have written. To make friends. Find hobbies. Keep busy. Be
okay in the quiet. Find my passion. Never to lose the things I
loved in the first place. He was smart and creative and so
loving. I’m not like him.”
Giana bracketed Coralyn’s face with her hands, cupping her
jaw gently. “I think you’re exactly like him.”
“No, really. I can’t even draw a stick figure, and you should
see my crafts.”
Giana pulled back and reached into the satchel she was still
wearing, twisted around to her back. She pulled out the flat,
square jewellery box. “Speaking of what your dad made and
