February 10
Luke
T he cemetery feels stark and cold when I pull in. It’s February, I know, but would it be too much to ask for a little blue peeking through the clouds? It’s stayed gray and overcast the last few days, kind of like my mood.
The last time I was here, we were burying my father. I was wrapped up in comforting my mom, playing host to the crowd that followed us from the funeral home to the gravesite, and just going through all the motions as I tried to get through a tough day.
I thought it was tough because I was worried about Mom and I already knew the executorship was getting dropped on me, throwing a big wrench into my life when I least expected it. But only now can I recognize that it was tough in other ways, too. Because my dad was gone. Because I loved him even though I was mad at him for most of my life up to now.
So that day I failed to get a good look at the headstone he and Mom had already put in place a few years back. Now I take in both their names, and the peaceful image of a horse in a meadow they had engraved on it, which seems even more relevant now than they could have known then.
Mom asked me to bring some flowers for the vases on both sides of the stone, certain the live ones left behind from the funeral were long since dead and picked up by now. She just isn’t ready to come herself yet. And she was right—the grave is bare and a little lonely-looking, so the bundles of red silk roses she sent me to tuck into the vases help a lot.
I’m about to leave, but then I don’t. It feels like too quick of a visit, like maybe I’m supposed to be more…reverent of his resting place or something. I guess a lot has changed since he died. Back then, I refused to acknowledge I had anything to grieve. Now I know I do, and I’m just beginning to mourn the relationship we never quite had.
Maybe all of that has me wishing I could say some things to him I never got to. And whereas I don’t usually talk to pieces of stone, I’m alone here, so…hell, why not?
Peering down at his name again, I begin softly, “I’m sorry we weren’t closer. I could have done more as an adult to make that happen. But you could have done more when I was a kid.
“I craved your approval, but never got it. I always felt like the black sheep of the family just because we didn’t care about the same things. But I’m trying to remember good times we had together. I’m grateful we had some. I’m grateful we shared a love of horses. Those really were our best times.” I’d never thought about that until Taylor pointed it out, but she was spot on.
“You’d like what we’re doing with the farm. I only wish you could see it when it’s done.” Then I tilt my head, remembering Taylor saying she feels like her dad is still with her. “Who knows,” I go on. “Maybe you will. I don’t know how things like that work, but…I hope so.”
And then the damnedest thing happens. A breeze draws my gaze upward, and I notice a gray cloud darker than the rest. And…it seems almost shaped like a galloping horse.
It only lasts a second—the clouds are shifting and moving, and if there was a horse in the sky or if I just created it out of some kind of subconscious wishful thinking, it’s gone before I can examine it any closer. And then it begins to snow.
When I hear a vehicle somewhere behind me, I turn and glance across the cemetery to see an SUV that looks like Taylor’s—and even though it’s probably seventy-five yards away, there’s no mistaking the redhead who gets out and walks to a nearby grave marker that surely bears her dad’s name.
I’ve been trying not to think about her, but it doesn’t work. Either I’m reminiscing about conversations we had or I see something random that reminds me of her—someone with red hair, a poodle, a cake. Pretty bad when a simple cake—any cake—has you thinking about the girl who clearly doesn’t want you anymore. I blow out a discouraged sigh at the thought.
And when I remember kissing her, I just don’t understand how I misread her so badly. Or why she’s suddenly pushing me away.
So, in closing, I take a last glance at Dad’s grave and murmur, “There’s this girl I like. A lot. I think she’s done with me, though. It sucks. But I guess there’s no time like the present to find out for sure.”
And with that, I zip up my coat to ward off the wet snow and make my way toward her.
Taylor
Every February I change out the silk flowers on my dad’s headstone for a bouquet of wooden hearts I bought at a craft store the year after he died. They get weather-worn, but like the valentine box, I just repaint them.
I normally come sooner in the month, but it’s been an unusual February, in more ways than one. And as I lower the heart bouquet into the vase, I realize one of those ways is walking right toward me.
I guess it was inevitable to run into him again. I only hope my heart can take it. As always, the very sight of him makes my skin tingle.
“Come here often?” he asks by way of greeting. Then he lets out a cynical-sounding laugh. “That sounded more like we’re in a pickup bar than a cemetery, didn’t it?”
I’m tempted to tell him I wouldn’t know. Maybe he goes to pickup bars. I don’t. It just reminds me of what different lives we’ve led, and for all I know, he has a girl in every town. The thought bolsters my decision even as I say, kindly, “Yeah, actually, I do come here a lot.”
“It’s my first time,” he tells me. “Since the burial, I mean.”
“How are you doing with it? Is it hard to be here?” I don’t mean to make meaningful conversation, but despite myself, I care.
“It’s…okay,” he answers with a sad sort of smile. “Maybe I’m finally starting to work through the loss. You helped me with that.”
I just nod. I want to say more—because I still find him easy to be with. Even if I kind of hate that now. But I stay quiet, not wanting to send mixed messages.
“By the way,” he says, changing course, “some good news for you. Jasmine is leaving town.”
How do you know that? Where is she going? Utah? I simply say, “Oh?”
“I saw her one day on the street and she told me she might be relocating to New York. I didn’t ask for details, but yesterday my mom ran into her mom, and word is that Jasmine got a job at some high-end boutique in Manhattan. Apparently the owner thought her influencer status might draw in business.”
Despite myself, I’m relieved. Sure, a part of me would have liked for her to suffer a little more, but it’s true that we don’t know anyone else’s internal struggles, and I’m happy just to have her back out of my life. And maybe this explains that hair-touching incident I saw. But her departure doesn’t change anything between me and him. “Well, the Big Apple should give her far grander things to post about than Sweetwater does.”
He tips his head back in seeming agreement, then says, “Hopefully it’s a new start for her.”
Again, I just nod.
And as things go quiet between us and it begins snowing harder, he finally says, “I should leave you to your grave-visiting.”
“I’m done,” I tell him, “but it’s getting pretty cold and wet out here, so I’m gonna…” I point to my car.
He nods quietly, then turns to go as well—but it’s only a few seconds later that he stops and looks back at me. “Taylor, did I do something wrong?”
Caught off guard, I blink, certain I look out of sorts. “Huh?”
His demeanor has shifted and he now appears slightly angry, stone-faced. “You obviously don’t want to see me anymore. I’m wondering why.”
Put on the spot, I struggle to catch my breath as snow swirls around us. Although he has every right to ask, I’m viscerally whisked back to confrontations with random bullies in school. Despite that, just like when I faced Jasmine head-on last week, I steady myself and reply, “I’ve explained I’m super busy at the shop. Valentine’s Day is only a few days away.” Then I even force a smile. “Heart-shaped baked goods, you know. It’s not a diner.”
But my attempt at a joke falls flat, and he doesn’t let me off the hook. “You sure that’s the only reason?”
I take a deep breath, let it back out. And then proceed to give him a more detailed answer that’s still just as empty. “Look, we’re both swamped. We have very different lives. It’s been nice spending time with you, but you’re leaving soon, and I have cakes to make, so…”
By the time my voice trails off, a lump has risen to my throat, and I’m grateful when he begins to respond—until he confronts me with, “So we’re just done? Just like that?”
I draw in another deep breath, uncomfortable. I stare at his chest, watching big snowflakes land on his coat and then melt, because I can’t meet his gaze. “I’m…not sure what you want me to say.”
I feel his eyes on me for a long moment until he replies, “Never mind. I get it. But just so you know, this isn’t what I want.”
Then when I least expect it, he steps closer, lifts one palm to my face, and kisses the opposite cheek—just before he walks away through the rows of gravestones.
I stand there in the falling snow, freezing and trying not to cry. I thought I felt that first cheek-kiss a couple of weeks ago intensely—but this one melts through me like love and passion and heartache and regret all at once.
Mom was right—I’m gonna be hurt anyway. So why am I pushing him away? As he puts more distance between us across the cemetery, I’m tempted to go after him or call his name. Tell him I’m sorry. Tell him I’m scared. Tell him I’m in too deep.
But pride won’t let me.
When I knew him before, I was the girl getting laughed at, or crying in public, or whose face turned bright red from some horrible ridicule. Surely I’m that girl in his memory, too. And if he turned around right now, he’d see me about to cry yet again.
I just don’t want to be that person anymore. I may not have much here, but at least I’ll walk away with my dignity.
Despite the cold and snow, I turn back toward Dad’s grave, standing there until I hear the Tahoe leave and the cemetery falls quiet again. Then I get back in my car and press the Start button.
Nothing happens. Great.