Chapter 29 Love, Ongoing
(Arlo)
Two months passed before Berrie returned to the shelter, and I made sure I wasn’t there when she was.
I asked March and Levi about her instead, keeping my distance on purpose and measuring absence like penance.
She didn’t need to keep running into me, didn’t need my presence grazing her healing like a bruise torn open again.
And if I was honest, I wasn’t ready either for the way her smile might falter when she saw me.
The last time I saw her was at a bar gathering. I kept my distance, even though every instinct urged me to cross the room. She looked alive, beautiful, and happy. The sight filled me with pride and regret in equal measure.
I heard she had been going on dates now. The knowledge lodged itself beneath my ribs, sharp and quiet. I told myself it was good, that it was necessary, and I repeated it until it almost began to sound like the truth.
The only real beam of light in those days was Mrs. Ellery, who had all but adopted me.
I called her every other day to check in, and I often went to her house for coffee, stories, and sometimes painting together.
It became a quiet habit that eased into my life without asking.
It made her happy, less lonely, and, if I was honest, it did the same for me.
Tonight, I called her like I always did, and like always, she asked about Berrie.
I told her what I had said every time before: that I was respecting Berrie’s wishes, that all I wanted was for her to be happy and to succeed.
I added that I’d heard she was doing okay, though still struggling to find a way to publish her illustrated stories.
Mrs. Ellery fell silent on the other end of the line. For a moment, all I could hear was her breathing.
Then she said, "My husband had a publishing house."
I straightened. "Wait—what?"
"It’s still operating," she went on gently. "Different people now. I don’t want you to think this is a promise, Arlo. There are committees and editors, and yes, timing matters."
My heart began that careful, hopeful rhythm. "But…?"
"But I could put Berrie’s illustrated stories in front of the right eyes."
I smiled into the phone, already imagining Berrie’s expression if this led anywhere at all. "Thank you, Helen," I said softly.
Hope fluttered in my chest all the same. After I hung up, I called March. I didn’t explain everything; I only asked her to find a way to get Berrie’s stories and send them to the publishing house.
Three weeks passed, suspended in waiting.
Then, one day, March sent me a video of Berrie, laughing and dancing.
She spun in the middle of a sunlit room, hair flying, joy finally outrunning fear.
She giggled, danced, pressed a hand to her mouth, then laughed again, as if she couldn’t quite believe she was allowed to feel this happy.
"Finally, March!" she said, breathless and radiant.
I couldn’t speak. I pressed the phone to my chest and breathed. All I sent was a text: Thanks, March.
I watched the video again and again, letting her happiness flood the quiet, chasing the silence out of every corner. This time, I didn’t stop the tears. They came freely, helpless, and honest, while I smiled through every one of them.
That night, I fell asleep with the video still playing, her laughter drifting softly through the dark like a promise.
"Keep dancing, love," I whispered. "Happiness suits you."
*****
In the month that followed, I planned a road trip I would never take.
I mapped it with care, stopping at every place Berrie had ever dreamed aloud about: coastal towns with salt in the air, narrow bookstores tucked between cafés, and artists’ markets where illustrated stories were displayed on wooden stands, pages fluttering in the breeze.
I booked everything—the car, the hotel rooms with balconies and soft light. I made reservations at places she’d once saved on her phone and never gone to. I mapped the drives so no one would feel rushed, leaving space for detours.
I told only Levi and March. I made them promise not to tell her it came from me, but from them as a gift to celebrate her stories being published. Levi studied me for a long moment before nodding. March squeezed my arm and said she’d take care of it.
All I asked in return was simple.
"Send me videos," I said. "Nothing else. Just… let me see her happy."
I watched the trip unfold from a distance, through short clips and stolen moments.
Berrie laughing in the passenger seat, hair whipping everywhere.
Berrie crouched in front of a tiny stand, eyes wide as she flipped through illustrated zines that felt like they belonged to her world.
Berrie barefoot on a beach at dusk, sleeves rolled up, smiling like there was nowhere else she needed to be.
I replayed every one of them. I might have checked her posts too, more than once.
Okay, more than I should have. When the last video came in, she was laughing so hard she had to bend over, hair falling into her face, joy unguarded and real.
I watched until the screen dimmed, then let my phone fall to my chest.
I smiled.
******
Another three months slipped by. The last time I’d seen Berrie was at a bar, all of us crowded together for Asa’s birthday. She was radiant in a short dress, her hair catching the light, standing beside her date. I did my best to stay casual. We traded small talk, smiles, polite laughter.
Inside, though… inside, all I wanted was to reach across the table, take her hand, pull her close.
To tell her how much I’d missed her. But I didn’t.
I couldn’t. Every time she laughed at something her date said, a strange, bittersweet pull settled in my chest—happiness for her joy, sharpened by the fact that I wasn’t the reason for it.
Levi, ever a human tornado, jabbed his elbow into my side mid-conversation.
"Dude, you’re staring again. Eyes glazed. Creepy, bro."
I managed a weak grin. "It’s not creepy. I’m… appreciating the art."
She drifted closer and said hello. When I had the chance, I leaned in slightly. "Congratulations on your stories," I said softly.
"Thank you!" she beamed, eyes sparkling. "I’m publishing two more soon. I’m so excited, Arlo!"
"That’s great, Berrie. You deserve it," I said, keeping my voice light even as something tightened in my chest.
She hesitated, then added more quietly, "Maybe… maybe you could read some of them and tell me what you think?"
"Of course," I said without hesitation. She had no idea I’d already bought several copies of both stories.
There was a brief pause on the line before she spoke, almost shyly. "I never really said it properly, but… thank you, Arlo. For the therapy sessions. They’ve helped me so much."
"I’m glad," I said, and I meant it more than anything.
Since that night, she’d published another story.
Then another. She even went on a book tour.
I followed every step from a distance, quietly, discreetly, and fiercely proud.
I kept a folder on my laptop filled with her photos, articles, interviews, screenshots of strangers praising her work.
Copies of her books lined my shelves. Every time I looked at them, the same feeling settled in: pride threaded through with a familiar, gnawing ache.
I was still in therapy. Still running the shop. Still painting her eyes, her face, again and again. But I never initiated contact. I only answered when she reached out. I couldn’t risk intruding on the life she was building or the happiness she deserved.
Before I realized how much time had passed, Levi pulled us all together to plan a surprise for Asa for their first anniversary. The moment landed bittersweetly. It had been more than a year since Berrie left me with that letter and walked out of my life.
Nothing had changed, and yet everything had.
My feelings were the same.
We were not.