The Dead Romantics (67)

“I am in so much trouble,” I said under my breath as I opened my laptop.

And not just because I was falling for—

I wasn’t falling.

I couldn’t.

I tried not to entertain the idea as I pulled up Dad’s obituary again, and stared at the blank document.

Then I took a deep breath, and remembering what my Mom told me earlier, I started with a simple story.

I started with goodbye.





26





Ridges of the Past


I WASN’T THE outdoorsy sort of person. In fact, I really hated nature that wasn’t grown in a cemetery. I hated the bugs, the hiking, the snakes you had to watch out for, the palmetto bugs, the ants, the ticks, the weird hairy caterpillars, the raccoons. One time in high school, on my way to my car in the morning, I was chased by an opossum with a bent tail. Chased. Straight to my car!

I gathered very early on in my life that nature didn’t like me, either. Even when I moved to New York, pigeons dive-bombed me and sewer rats always seemed to zero in on skittering over my feet. I didn’t want to talk about the Godzilla-sized cockroaches that lived in my first apartment. I will never be able to sit down on the toilet and pee in peace for the rest of my life because of that damn infestation.

So it was safe to say, hiking up to the Ridge the next morning, I was not having a fun time. Never mind the history with the Ridge. It wasn’t so much that I avoided it but . . . coupled with hating nature, I never really had a reason to come back.

What was worse, I hadn’t seen Ben all morning. I wondered where he was. Usually he waited for me in the living area downstairs, but this morning when I went to fix my daily cup of battery acid to head to family breakfast, he wasn’t around.

I couldn’t wait for him, either, so after my waffle and eggs I headed for the Ridge. There was a forest path on the far side of Mairmont that trailed up to the fields. Now that I thought about it, Dad did used to pick wildflowers when he went for walks around the Ridge. He’d gather a bunch of different colors and bring them back down the trail with us, and present them to Mom at home.

The trail had changed in the decade I’d been gone. There were now benches along the path to commemorate Harry, and the dirt trail was more defined, but the trees were mostly the same—large old oaks and pines unfurling their leaves for spring. New York seasons were wonderful, since you actually got to experience all of them. In Mairmont, it was either winter or summer, with a week of spring and fall in between. This week must’ve been spring, and I’d come down at just the right time. The morning air was brisk, and the sun was bright, and the woods were quiet.

It was just me and my gasping breath as I trekked up the path.

When I was almost at the top, I leaned against a pine, bent over, to catch my breath. Sweat was dripping down my back and that was not a comfortable feeling.

“You know, most people don’t hike in flats.”

I pulled myself ramrod straight—and almost blacked out. Ben gave a yelp, flinging his hands toward me, as I caught myself on a tree. I blinked the spots out of my eyes. “What were you gonna do, catch me?” I asked, annoyed.

“It would’ve been rude not to try,” he replied.

“Oh, well then, thank you for the attempt.”

He mocked a bow. “Trying to find those wildflowers?” he asked as I pushed myself off the tree and climbed the final few steps to the top of the trail.

The tree line abruptly ended, and in its place stretched a wide meadow nearly a football field long before it dropped off a bit—the “ridge”—and more trees began. There was a bench over to the left of me, and a trash can that smelled like it hadn’t been emptied in at least a week. On the far side of the Ridge was a small plaque, donated by the town and placed by the town council, where I’d found the body. Harry’s dad didn’t think anyone would find him out here for at least a few years, so it surprised him when police came knocking on his door a week later.

Last I heard, he was rotting in the state prison.

What surprised me most about the Ridge, though, was that the field was covered in small white puffs. Dandelions. Stretching on and on like a fresh powdering of new snow. It was beautiful, struck against the contrast of the clear blue sky. I could lie down in it and be buried beneath the blooms, totally submerged, and sleep there.

They were weeds—technically wildflowers, I guessed, but not the kind I was looking for.

I let out a long breath. “Well, shit.”

Ben stood beside me, looking out onto the field. “Lots of wishes there.”

“What?”

“You know, wishes,” he replied, motioning to the field. “Didn’t you ever blow on dandelion tufts?”

“Of course I did,” I replied defensively. “It’s just dandelions are useless to me right now. They’re not what I need.”

“No, but . . . do you think we could stay a little longer?” he asked, and motioned for me to follow him into the field. In the sunlight, he looked a little more washed out than he did in the shade, a little more ghostly, sparkling like he was made of the twinkle lights I strung up in my dorm in college. The dandelions bent softly in the breeze through his ankles, and I wanted to walk with him.

“Just a little,” I agreed.

He waited for me to catch up, his hands in his pockets, patient and tall as always. “Imagine how many wishes you could get out of these. At least one is bound to come true.”