Chapter 30
Wren
The clinking of cutlery and the soft murmur of conversation filled the air at Momo she’d faced her biggest fear, crossed highways, mountain passes, and miles of uncertainty—all for me.
“How did I get this so wrong?” I asked quietly.
I had assumed the worst of Olivia, the person I was falling in love with, and it was enough to expel the breath from my lungs.
Emerson set her menu down, her fingers fiddling with the little soy sauce pots on the table. “Well, it wasn’t your fault,” she said. “It was mine.”
“Emmy, we’ve been over this. I’m not angry at you.”
“I know,” she replied, “but it is my fault for posting the picture. The press found you because of me, not Olivia.”
I sighed, leaning back against the booth. “Yes, but I jumped to conclusions because I was scared. That’s on me.”
Emerson grinned lightly. “Max would be so proud of us.”
I picked up my phone and tried calling Olivia again.
Straight to voicemail. My heart sank a little further, and I stared at the empty screen, wishing it could give me some kind of answer.
I’d texted her, left her messages, begged her to call me back.
But there was nothing. I couldn’t blame her, because I’d done the same thing.
I’d ignored everything and everyone. Grief, as it happens, is so powerful it can make a person disappear into a void, even in a world that is always connected.
“She’s just not answering,” I said dismally. “No matter how many times I call, nothing.”
“Well, we can’t change that tonight,” Emerson said, her attention already back on the menu.
“But what about the poetry evening?” I said, the words coming out as more of a plea than I intended. “Do you think she’ll come?” It may be my only chance to see her.
“Yeah, I do,” she said simply.
I frowned. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because she’s hurt,” she shrugged. “And that’s how we all ended up together in the first place.”
The waiter arrived and placed two bowls of steaming miso soup in front of us. He jotted down our dumpling order, plus a green tea for me, and disappeared back to the kitchen. Emerson slurped down her soup, wincing slightly at the temperature.
“Oh,” she said suddenly. “I almost forgot—I loved the book. Thinking of You. It’s my favorite book of yours to date. Everyone in the group has already read it too. Julian asked if we could just read those poems out during the poetry evening.”
I softened. “Really?”
“Absolutely. For someone who hasn’t written poetry in ten years, I think you’ve still got it.” She cleared her throat, and ventured, “I know Winnie would have liked it, especially the last poem.”
She returned to her soup, blowing gently to cool each spoonful.
“You should let me post on social media for you,” she said suddenly, her tone casual but her eyes excited. “I mean, I know the whole ‘posting the poem you wrote for Winnie’ thing kind of ruined your life briefly, but it did go viral, so…”
I set my soup spoon down, looking at her in interest. Surprising us both, I slid my phone toward her. “Do your best,” I said.
Emerson’s face lit up as she grabbed my device.
“You know,” I said, watching her face, dimly lit by the screen, “I used to feel tied to this place, like it was some tether to Lucy. But now…” I trailed off, glancing around the restaurant.
“Now what?” Emerson asked, slightly distracted by whatever she was currently typing into my phone.
“Now I feel like my life isn’t here anymore,” I admitted. And it wasn’t. It was back in Everston, with a group of people who had somehow, without my realizing, saved my life.
Emerson looked up and leaned forward, her eyes soft. “So, let’s go home.”
I smiled, nodding. “Let’s go home.”
By the time we arrived back in Colorado, the sun was just beginning to rise, casting pinks and oranges over the mountains.
The air filled my lungs; I felt fresh and alive.
Emerson and I had left Winnie’s car outside my apartment and had taken the first available red-eye flight out of New York, and I spent the better part of the night quietly watching the clouds out the window.
At Denver International, we found my car right where I’d left it in the long-term parking lot.
As I went to open the driver door, Emerson stopped me, a smile on her face.
She wiggled her fingers and asked for the keys.
I handed them over wordlessly and we got into the car.
She adjusted the seat, turned up the radio to a decibel level that was far too loud, and pulled out of the lot as though it were her car.
As we drove, the monotony of the highway lulled me into a restless haze of worry, but looking at Emerson, calm and collected, I also felt proud in a way I didn’t know how to explain.
It was late morning by the time we reached Everston. As we pulled up to Emerson’s house, she turned to me. “I need to go deal with my mom,” she said, her voice steady but tired. “Will you be okay?”
I nodded, trying to muster a smile. “I’ll be fine. I think I’ll head to Gill’s for now.”
“Call me if you need anything, okay?” she said. “But I’ll see you tonight.”
The poetry evening. “Yes,” I replied, firmly, and she squeezed my shoulder. “Tonight.”
As Emerson hurried away, I reached for my phone, ignoring the barrage of missed calls and unread messages that cluttered my screen.
Instead, I opened Olivia’s contact. My texts to her still sat undelivered.
The silence was stretching further between us.
I tried calling her again, holding my breath as the phone rang.
And rang. And rang. Straight to voicemail.
“Olivia, it’s me. Please call me back when you can.
I was wrong. I was so wrong and I’m sorry.
I need to see you.” My voice cracked at the end, and I quickly hung up.
I sat in the car, staring out at the mountains, their peaks soft and powdery.
Aiden Callaway came on the radio, one of the songs that Olivia and I loved and listened to as we made dinner.
I saw her so clearly in my mind: barefoot, messy hair, wearing one of my oversized T-shirts and handing me chopped garlic with a smile that could undo me.
I turned off the radio, and the silence felt deafening.
The thought of sitting in Gill’s house, alone with my guilt, was unbearable.
I had to do something. I shifted into gear, and before I realized it I had pulled up outside of Olivia’s apartment building.
I climbed the stairs, my heart pounding with every step, and knocked on her door.
Nothing. I knocked again, louder this time, and called out, “Olivia?”
Still nothing.
The hallway echoed with more of my knocking, before I heard a door creak open. I turned to see a woman, older, her hair pulled into a neat bun, peeking out from the apartment next door.
“She’s not in,” the neighbor said. “She left town, oh…early this morning? Seemed like she was in a hurry.”
I murmured a thank you, and turned back toward the stairs.
I drove into town, parked outside the diner, and wandered along Main Street, my thoughts circling.
I was considering taking one of the trails up the side of the mountain and screaming into the forest, until I spotted a small shop I’d somehow never noticed before.
Its colorful door and window frames glistened in the sunlight.
The hand-painted sign above the door read: Merrill’s Art and Gift Shop.
Could it be the artist from the book cover?
I immediately pushed open the door. The shop’s interior was a riot of color, too, and complete chaos.
Bright yellow and lavender walls framed shelves crammed with the strangest assortment of items. Whimsical T-shirts and socks hung next to pottery and hand-carved figurines.
Traffic signs leaned against antique clocks, and a bin of stuffed toys sat beside vintage radios.
The creaky wooden floors groaned with every step as I drifted toward a wall of paintings, my eyes drawn to their intricate details.
Each piece depicted Everston in some way, and they were all painted on an assortment of different objects, from guitars to mugs to vases.
“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” a voice behind me said, startling me.
I turned to see a middle-aged woman with silver-streaked hair standing behind the counter. She smiled warmly.
“Incredible,” I said, my gaze lingering on one particular painting of a bird perched on a delicate branch.
“Oh, those are by Merrill herself,” the woman said. “She’s ninety-two, and still paints every day.”
“Ninety-two?” I echoed, impressed.
The woman nodded. “She’s upstairs if you’d like to meet her?”
I hesitated for a moment. “Sure,” I replied.