Chapter 73
Chapter seventy-three
Izzy
Well, I quit my job. Yep. Quit. No notice.
What the fuck am I doing?
I’m supposed to be on this journey of self-discovery, yet I’m on my third week of this “road trip” with Dessa, and I don’t feel any less lost than I did before we left.
I was sad when Via decided not to come with us, but I understand with her being further along in her pregnancy and not wanting to be that far away from Ander.
We've spent so much time in the vehicle that Dessa has officially turned me into a swiftie. I now know the words to every Taylor Swift song there is. Yay for me.
“The coffee shop is just up ahead,” Dessa says, walking a few steps ahead of me and turning the street corner.
We’re currently in Colorado, and although the sights are gorgeous, it doesn’t fill the empty void that resides in my heart.
“Could you slow the fuck down, Fast Feet McGee?” I shout behind her, trying to match my pace to hers, but fail. “I don’t think the coffee is going anywhere. Why are we rushing?”
“I need caffeine to—”
“Hold up,” I call out, interrupting her, reaching out and grabbing hold of her arm to halt her steps. My eyes land on something that causes my breath to hitch momentarily.
“What the—” Dessa begins, but her words fall short as her eyes land on what has me stunned in place.
We must look like quite the sight, standing on a sidewalk in downtown Telluride, staring at an art studio as if we’ve seen a ghost. But it’s not just the art studio itself that has our attention. No. It’s the masterpiece in the window.
A painting of a man with angel wings, holding on to a faceless woman. The woman, although faceless, appears lost in contrast to the angel, who is holding on to her. There’s something about it that calls out to me, and it feels like a sign. What that sign is, I’m unsure. But I’m drawn to it.
“Do you want to go inside?” Dessa asks, breaking the silence.
My feet move before I can respond, and I find myself standing inside the shop in awe.
There are hundreds of paintings adorned throughout the shop, all stunning. All causing me to feel. But there’s something about the one in the window that originally grabbed my attention.
A young teenage girl, probably around eighteen, appears from the back hallway. “Hi. Can I help you today?” she asks sweetly.
“Thank you. We’re just looking around,” Dessa replies before I can.
“The one in the window,” I begin, shuffling on my feet. “The one with the angel. Is there a story behind it?”
I love art—specifically paintings. I love the stories behind them the most. However, I love the emotions they elicit when you observe them and truly take the time to admire them. I find it can be healing.
I may still feel lost, but I have done some healing since we’ve been gone.
Healing that was long overdue. I’ve started virtual counseling with a therapist named Celia.
She’s young and beautiful, and although it looks like she hasn’t experienced anything in her life yet, she somehow gets me.
She also puts up with my mouthy antics, so there’s that.
She’s helping me process the loss of my baby, the loss of Maverick, and everything in between.
The thing I struggle with most is that I see Maverick in everything. He’s everywhere. Every day. In every single thing that I do. From the street lights that turn on at night, to fucking chickens on the side of the road. There’s always a constant reminder of him.
The note I’ve yet to unfold and the ring box I can’t bring myself to open follow me everywhere I go, constantly on my mind. Celia suggests I open them before the end of my trip. I should open them, but I can’t do it. Not yet.
Granted, I’m not out to forget him. I could never forget him. But the thoughts of what he did, what he sacrificed for me to live, haunt me.
Celia assures me that survivor's guilt is part of the process of healing, and to allow myself to feel those emotions.
Yet, feeling those emotions means accepting that a beautiful life was lost, and that’s not something I’m sure I’m quite ready to accept.
I’ve always struggled with accepting things, and not many people have been able to understand that about me, except for Jett—
The sudden thought of him overwhelms me, causing my heart to flutter momentarily. I miss Jett. There’s no denying that, but I’m not sure if I can forgive him for this.
I’ve always been the secret keeper, so if anyone can empathize with feeling the need to hide truths away, it’s me. But his truth and arrogance to handle everything alone cost a precious life.
Trust has never been easy for me, not since Chad and then my dad’s betrayal. Jett was always deserving of it, yet I couldn’t give it.
Now, I’m not so sure I can ever cross that line with him.
“I’m not sure of a story behind it,” the girl says, walking us over to the window and turning the painting for me to see it up close. She pulls out a small piece of paper from the back of the canvas. “It’s titled ‘The Beauty in Being Lost’.”
The Beauty in Being Lost.
I let the words sink in as my eyes stay fixed on the painting, and then it hits me. All the emotions, all at once.
A lone tear tickles down my cheek, and I quickly wipe it away with a shaky hand.
I don’t know where my life is going at the current moment. Maybe I’m not supposed to know. Perhaps being lost is part of the journey. And, just because that journey doesn’t look like what I’ve imagined, maybe there’s still beauty in it.
My lips tug into a soft smile; that sounds like something Maverick would say.
I feel it then—he’s still with me.
Somehow, in this moment, a glimmer of hope warms my chest, and I cling to it with all my might.