Chapter 28 #2
“You’re going,” I said quietly, but there was no panic. Only understanding.
“It’s okay,” Lucy assured me. “I’ll always be part of your story. It’s not goodbye; it’s just making space for what’s ahead.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
“What if I can’t do it?”
“You can,” she said, her smile warm and certain. Her gaze flicked to the pocket of my overalls. “The answer is already with you.”
Confused, I reached into the pocket and pulled out the coaster. The one of Everston. Its circular shape framed an illustration of the colorful buildings on Main Street, a pickup truck filled with flowers parked in the foreground, while mountains rose in the background against the clear blue sky.
The memory came rushing back. Lucy coming home from a work trip, her cheeks flushed with excitement as she handed me the coaster.
“You wouldn’t believe this adorable little town,” she said. “It’s the kind of town that steals your heart, Bee. The kind of place you go when everything feels like it’s falling apart.”
“Oh,” I replied, smiling at her enthusiasm. “What’s there?”
“The best cinnamon rolls you’ll ever taste,” she grinned, her eyes sparkling.
“And mountains, and bluebirds, and a sky that stretches forever. The Main Street has every building in a different vibrant color, and there’s only one traffic light in the whole place.
There’s quaint little stores and a beautiful old library. It’s magic.”
I laughed, as I continued folding our laundry. “Maybe I’ll have to go sometime.”
“You must,” she replied. “If ever you can’t find me, I’ll be there.”
I blinked back tears as I clutched the coaster tightly in my hand. I closed my eyes, and exhaled. When I opened them again, Lucy was gone.
The doorbell rang, pulling me from the haze of my thoughts.
I moved through the house, back to the front door, and opened it to find Peter, my literary agent, standing on the stoop.
His expression was a mix of exasperation and determination.
He stepped inside and charged into the living room without waiting for an invitation, holding a stack of papers and his ever-present phone.
“Brooklyn,” he began, already pacing. “When you said you needed time—to get the writing juices flowing—I thought, great, she’s finally coming out of her self-imposed retirement phase. But nearly a year!? My god, do you know how much damage control I had to do?”
I folded my arms. Self-imposed retirement phase? I was still grieving. “Nice to see you, too, Peter.”
He ignored my sarcasm, continuing to pace the room, gesturing animatedly with his phone and papers as he spoke. “The press is having a field day. They’ve been speculating about your disappearance for months. One outlet had the nerve to infer that you’d been abducted by aliens.”
I scoffed. “That would have been interesting I suppose.”
He glared at me. “This isn’t a joke, Brooklyn.
Your editor is still ready and willing to publish the poetry book, despite your disappearance, and your complete disregard for media appearances, interviews, festival panels, charity events, everything you had committed to. We need to address this head-on.”
I sank heavily into the couch, running a hand through my hair. “I can’t do this right now, Peter.”
“Yes, you can,” he said. “I’ve spoken with Dana”—my heart rate doubled thinking about her; she was my friend and I’d ghosted her—“we’ve organized a press conference.
Just one. With your name, it’s not hard to make it happen quickly.
Thank god. You answer some questions, clear the air, read some of that poetry you sent me all those months ago, and we can move on. ”
“I’m not ready,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
“You don’t have to be ready,” he replied. “Besides, this press conference could generate great publicity. It’s a win-win. You’ll have a chance to tell your story on your terms, and we’ll reignite interest in the book.”
Of course, this was about the book. The same one that sat unfinished since the night Lucy died.
Until I’d landed in Everston. That partial manuscript had transformed into the book I wrote for Misery Loves Company.
Peter had no idea that I’d managed to finish it.
I wondered what my editor would say if she knew I’d published Thinking of You myself and printed copies for a grief group in Colorado.
I sighed, too tired to fight him. “Okay,” I said. “Do whatever you need to.”
Peter nodded, already typing something on his phone. “I’ll handle everything. You just need to show up.”
In all that time, not once had he asked how I was.
And it struck me—people who truly know grief don’t shy away from it.
They see it, hold it, and honor it, because they understand its weight.
But people like Peter? They don’t ask, don’t care, and don’t linger.
To them, loss isn’t something worth acknowledging, it’s just an inconvenience, a silence they’re too afraid to fill.
And that silence? It said everything. You know who wouldn’t have done that?
A certain group of people in Everston, Colorado.