Chapter 30 #4
“What?” she replied. “You said we had to get the word out, to help Henry. Get as much attention on this night as possible. I mean, I only DM’d the ones you were following.
I figured if you were following them, you liked them.
You know, like, over half of them replied right away. You got clout, girl.”
I couldn’t even respond.
“Also,” Emerson added, “I know you have, like, millions of followers, but seriously, Wren, it’s not cool to use so many emojis these days. Just leave your socials to me, hmm?”
I groaned as the others burst into laughter.
As Rita and Bobby walked out onto our little makeshift stage to give the first performance, I spotted Max in the corner. I made my way to him, weaving through the crowd.
He looked at me pointedly. “Does it make sense now?” he asked.
“Does what make sense?” I responded, puzzled.
“Your loss?”
I thought for a moment, feeling the weight of the question. “No,” I replied truthfully. “But I don’t think it’s supposed to.”
Max nodded, knowingly. “I knew you’d get there.”
“What were you writing in your notebook?” I asked him. “All those meetings, you were always writing in a notebook.”
Max peered at me through his glasses, a light smile tugging the corners of his mouth. “Would you like to see?”
“Notes on me?” I asked, curiosity piqued.
He smiled, handing me the notebook he’d had with him during all the meetings at the library.
I opened it carefully, wondering if he was breaking a zillion patient confidentiality laws.
But there were no notes on anyone in our grief group.
There weren’t even any notes about me. There were just poems. Dozens of them.
They were my poems, from various works I had written over the years.
I stared back at him, astonished.
Max shrugged. “I knew who you were,” he replied.
“I’ve been a fan of your writing for a very long time.
I recognized you immediately. Your poetry helped me grieve my relationship with my daughter—she died, but she was a fan of your work, too, and reading it always made me feel like we were still somehow connected. ”
“You never said anything,” I murmured.
“Of course not,” he replied. “You were reinventing yourself, why would I get in the way of that?”
I nodded, wondering what the me from a year ago would think of all of this.
She’d been lost, fighting her way out of a dark hole; if I’d told her then that she would somehow find the light, I wondered if she would have believed me.
But perhaps that’s the point. You have to sit in the darkness—learn it, understand it—so that when you finally see the light, you’ll recognize it.
As though he could read my mind—a superpower I have often wondered if therapists have—Max said, “Brooklyn would be proud of you, Wren.”
As the night unfolded, Rita and Bobby read their joint poem, a tender reflection on learning to accept heartache, to let it shape them instead of break them, and how it had unexpectedly guided them toward healing.
Julian followed, his voice trembling as he did what Emerson had told him to do; he’d written a letter to his family.
His wife, sitting in the front row with his daughter, cried.
Gill lightened the mood with a poem about opossums, and Mayor Ashcroft gave a heartfelt speech about the importance of the arts in fostering community as a gateway to mental health initiatives.
Then Henry—steady, kind Henry—read a poem for Jacob, and for the library.
Finally, Emerson closed the round with a bittersweet piece about Winnie, weaving in the lessons she’d learned about how love can outlast loss.
Her mom was beaming. Emerson, being Emerson, took her time onstage not only to share her poem but also to deliver an impassioned commentary to the media present on the resurgence of contemporary poetry and its profound role in fostering personal healing and emotional growth.
I could see Archie Beecher scribbling away on a notepad and made a mental note to introduce them.
As applause filled the room, I knew it was almost my turn.
I leaned against the edge of a bookshelf.
And then I saw Olivia.
She rushed through the library doors, hair curled slightly at the ends, dampened by the light drizzle that had begun to fall outside.
Her face was flushed and breathless as she scanned the room.
When her eyes found mine, she weaved her way through the crowd, never breaking our gaze until she was standing right in front of me.
“Wren,” she said, her voice soft but full of emotion. “You’re here.”
I swallowed hard; my chest felt fluttery. “I shouldn’t have left,” I whispered. “I tried to reach you, I’m so—”
“Sorry,” she said. “I turned my phone off. I was…hurt,” she admitted. “It’s something I used to do with my mom when I was younger…” She paused. “Actually, it carried right through until she died, if I’m honest. When she’d hurt me, I’d just go radio silent. Sometimes for days, sometimes for weeks.”
I nodded. “I shouldn’t have said those things,” I said, my voice breaking. “They were awful. I didn’t mean them, Liv. I was just scared, and hurt, and confused. You are nothing like your mom.”
She reached out, her fingertips brushing mine, warm and soft, sending a quiet ache straight to my chest. “I know,” she said gently. “I know you were. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I drove to Denver,” she admitted, her cheeks flushing. “I was trying to get a flight to New York. Silly, right?”
“Liv…” I started, but she squeezed my hand.
“I didn’t really have a plan. I just needed to find you. Then I turned my phone back on, got your messages, and—well, of course my phone died. And then I remembered the poetry evening tonight.” She laughed lightly. “And I’m late, as per usual.”
I exhaled, the tension around us falling away. “I shouldn’t have doubted you. I was wrong for jumping to conclusions.”
“It’s okay,” she replied. “You know, if I’ve learned anything, it’s that when you hurt for so long, it’s all you really know, so you just assume it’s going to happen again.”
I stepped toward her, our faces inches apart. “Can we start again?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
She smiled, her eyes soft and full of light. “Of course,” she said, lifting my hand to her lips and kissing my knuckles.
I pulled her into me, burying my face into the curve of her neck. Her arms wrapped around my shoulders, anchoring me in a way only Olivia seemed to be able to do. The library faded away, and, for a moment, it was just the two of us.
Henry’s voice crackled over the microphone, drawing us back to the present. “There are still plenty of cinnamon rolls, folks,” he said, his tone cheerful, “but not if you keep eating four each. Yes, I’m looking at you, Gill.”
Olivia grinned, pulling back just enough to meet my gaze. “What is the name of your poem?” she asked, her voice a whisper meant just for me.
I looked into her light-filled eyes and laced my fingers between hers. “Second Chance.”