Hard Beat(104)

They made me feel close to her for a bit. Sounds silly since it’s technically only been ten days since she died, but for me it’s been months since I’ve held her, seen her smile, heard her laugh. So I clung to the images, looking at the world through her eyes when the story hit me: tired reporter meets a fresh-faced photographer. Definitely not the sort of material a Pulitzer is awarded on, not even the type of book I had planned on writing – a romance of all things – but when I finally fell asleep at the computer after a few hours of type and delete, type and delete, I felt the best I’d felt in a few days.

Almost as if I’m preserving her memory somehow, keeping her alive, keeping her close to me.

I roll over in bed, look out to the forest of trees beyond the cabin, and contemplate falling back asleep so that I can see her again. Just one more time before I start my day.



“Afternoon, Ginger,” I say with a tip of my ball cap as I slide onto the same stool at the same time I do every day.

“The rugged thing looks good on you,” she says with a nod as she slides my beer and shot glass in front of me, pointing to my face where I opted not to shave today. “Pretty soon you’re going to look like a local.”

“Huh,” I say, my eye catching something behind the bar. “What’s that?”

“What’s what?” she asks as she glances along my line of sight before laughing. “Oh those. A lady was in here earlier, just passing through town… forgot them on the counter. Cute little thing.”

I angle my head to the side, the sight of the bubbles making my throat close up some. Just when I start to feel like I’m doing better, something dredges up the raw emotion hiding beneath the surface.

And then of course a part of me has to ask. “What did she look like?”

“You think your heartbreak’s coming looking for you?” Ginger asks with a lift of her chin, an excited smile spreading on her lips at the possibility of anything to gossip about in this one-horse town.

I shake my head and fight the burn in the back of my throat. “Nah. My heartbreak can’t come back.” I lower my hat down farther on my head to hide the emotion in my eyes that I don’t really feel like showing her.

“Sorry,” she says quickly, realizing the meaning behind my words and maybe understanding for the first time why I occupy this stool every day. “She was petite, dark hair, little pregnant belly. Boyfriend was waiting in the car while she was asking for directions and truth be told having a little morning sickness.” I swallow over the lump in my throat as she slides the bubbles down the counter my way. “Go ’head and give them a blow. Something about ’em always makes me feel like a kid again, and you look like you could take a moment to forget.”

My fingers fidget with the bottle in my hand because she has no idea that this little yellow container does anything but make me forget. “Thanks,” I all but whisper as memories of the rooftop come back to me. Of hearing her say she loved me for the first time.

And for the last time.



Thank you. You’ll never know how much it means to us to have this. I stare at the text from Stella’s mother with a bittersweet smile. On my directive, Rylee had sent them Stella’s camera along with the final images on her memory card. Since her last personal effects helped me be able to say good-bye to her, I thought they might add some sort of closure for them as well.

My finger hovers over the text, reflex taking over so that I’m pulling up the photos from that last morning together. Broad smiles and genuine happiness. And no matter how long I stare at our picture, I can’t seem to find any closure when it comes to Beaux.

When the phone rings, it startles me from the trance the image holds over me.

“Rafe.”

“Hey, man, how you doing?” he asks in that sympathetic tone that reminds me of wilting flowers after a funeral: pathetic, what people deem necessary, but something the person they’re intended for doesn’t need.

I wish people would stop asking me that. I’ve only spoken to my sister and parents and now Rafe, and every single damn conversation starts out this way. “I’m doing.”

“Good.” An uncomfortable silence fills the line while I wait out the purpose for the phone call.

“Did you need something?”

“Nah. Just wanted to check in with you,” he says.

“Thanks.” Quiet falls again, and even without him saying it, I know why he’s calling, glad that he knows me well enough that even though I said I quit, I might not have really quit. “I’m not ready yet. May not ever be, to be honest.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Might be ready, but for domestic stories. I don’t know,” I answer his unspoken questions.

“Good to know, but I really was just calling to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’ll get there.”

We talk a bit more, nothing of any importance, no mention of where I am or when I’m going home, but when we hang up, I find my mind wandering to the bottle of bubbles on my makeshift desk in this little cabin beside my laptop. I debate writing, but there are just too many memories today, too many things that have made my chest ache and my thoughts wander to what ifs. And the only way to fix that is to sleep so that I can dream again. Grief may change shape, but it never ends.