Midnight Lily(61)

"Sit down," she gestured to a berry-pink, overstuffed antique settee on the wall opposite her. I took a seat, leaning against the back and sighing loudly.

"Uh oh. What's that?" Nyala asked.

"Ryan. I ran into Ryan at a party and then he . . . found me." Nyala's hands paused only momentarily before she started working again, but her eyes remained on me.

"He did, did he?"

"You don't sound surprised."

"I'm not."

I tilted my head. "Why aren't you surprised?"

"Fate."

I groaned. "That's the second time today I've heard that word."

Nyala glanced up at me. "Fate is the language God uses to speak to us, baby. It's up to us to listen, though. What happened?"

I tilted my head, taking in her words. I was surprised Nyala believed in God, that anyone with an illness of any kind could believe in a loving God. Why couldn't he heal us then? Were we not worthy? But that was for another day, I supposed. I moved that aside and told her about running into Ryan at the charity event and then about him showing up at the aquarium that morning. "Damn," she said, the word filled with surprise. It was difficult to surprise Nyala when she was in one of her creative moods.

"Yeah," I said. "I know."

Nyala was quiet for a moment, focusing on what her hands were doing to the clay in front of her. "You never let go of him," she said.

I let out a long breath. "No. I still love him. And it still doesn't matter." And to grieve for him the way I had for months and months . . . I couldn't do it. Not again.

"Oh, it matters. I'd say it matters a great deal."

I shook my head. "I won't do that to him, Ny."

"What? Strap him with the burden of you?"

I let out a small laugh lacking in humor. "Basically, yes." I paused. "He looks so good, Nyala." I couldn't help the small smile that tugged at my lips. "He looks healthy and . . . happy."

"And you're not? Healthy, I mean?"

I shook my head. "No. And I probably never will be, not entirely. You know my past, Ny. What do I have to offer him other than the promise of a chaotic life? Of always wondering if I was just going to . . . go into one of my episodes at a moment's notice?"

She raised a brow, but her eyes remained on her work. "Episodes? Is that what the specialists are calling them these days?" No, that's what my grandmother called them, and I'd taken up the term.

"You get my point, though, Ny. After everything Ryan's fought through, does he deserve dealing with that? Dealing with me? Does he deserve that fate?" I bit at my lip, pondering the question as misery settled over me.

Nyala shrugged. "Deserve it? Do any of us deserve what we get in this life? Is that how it works?" She shrugged, answering her own question. "Sometimes I suppose. Mostly, no."

I sighed. "I just . . . why do I have to be this way? I just want to be free of it all. God, I just want to cast it all off."

Nyala was looking at me with sympathy. "You can't. Some things must be carried, and that's just the way it goes. It's not for us to know the why. Listen, baby, life is a series of things we choose and things we carry." She stood up, grabbing a rag on the table in front of her and wiping her hands clean before coming to sit next to me on the settee. "The things we choose, well, those are ours. But we don't get a vote on the things we carry. Some are heavier than others, some we can put down eventually, and some are ours to keep. We don't have a choice in the burdens we're given to bear, but we do have a choice in how we hold them. We can strap them to our backs and walk through the world hunched over under the weight like someone who should spend his or her days in a bell tower. Or we can stand tall and straight like one of those African queens carrying a woven basket on her head." She straightened her spine and held her head high, demonstrating her words, and then she smiled gently. "No, baby, we don't get to choose what we carry, but we do get to choose the grace with which we carry it."

I let out a small sniffle, a tear streaking down my cheek. I smiled and swiped at it.

"Now, are you Quasimodo or are you a queen?" she asked.

I laughed softly, wiping at another tear. "I want to be a queen."

Nyala gave me a dazzling smile. "Good. Then stand tall. Stake your claim, my love. Ryan—or any man for that matter—would be lucky to have you, brave, beautiful girl." She stood up and returned to her sculpture.

"Even if I'm a queen, I'm still difficult to love," I insisted.

"I don't find you difficult to love. I find it quite easy actually."

I smiled. "That's because you just . . . accept me."

"Maybe he wants to accept you, too."

"I shouldn't let him." I want to let him. I want to let him so much.

"It might not be your choice. And, baby girl, the ones who see what we carry and want us anyway, those are the ones to hold on to."

"How could it ever end well, Ny?" I asked.

"Oh, Lily. Happily ever after doesn't mean a lifetime of perfection. I don't think anyone believes that happily ever after means there are no unhappy days, even unhappy years. It means loving forever, despite all the many reasons it's easier not to."