Chapter 59
Frost has settled over the brimming country hills as I sit at the wicker table, dragging a green pencil down the smooth paper to finish colouring the landscape. I grab a white pencil, carefully beginning to add frost to the drawing.
Sweet vanilla floats from behind me, and I smile as Camila’s arms wrap around me, her warm lips pressing into my cheek.
“What are you drawing?” she murmurs.
I flick a page back, revealing a drawing of her in a broken doll position on the pole. I look up into her bright green eyes as she takes in the drawing.
“That’s beautiful,” she whispers, running her finger over the charcoal. She tuts when she remembers her finger is now sporting a black spot. I chuckle, grabbing the damp cloth and wiping it clean.
“You’ll never stop drawing me, will you?” she teases.
“Not so long as my hands allow me to.” I press my lips to hers as she grips my shirt from above.
“Are you ready?” she asks.
I close the book and slowly pull myself out of the chair.
My body has mostly healed, but I still get the occasional sharp pain when I’m not careful.
She’s dressed in her oversized puffer coat, black leggings and knee-high boots to match the earmuffs over her ears.
“You look like you’re about to trudge through a snowstorm,” I laugh, zipping up my own coat.
“Hey!” She smacks my arm playfully. “Some of us get cold. Unlike you.”
We stop by the front door, where I drop my sketchbook in one of the empty drawers of the tables in the foyer.
“It’s a good job I’ll always be here to keep you warm, Angel.”
She curls into my side as we walk down the steps to the McLaren. “That is so cliche,” she jokes as she climbs into the driver's seat of my car.
“Don’t kill us, please,” I laugh as she switches on the engine, ready to drive us to our destination.
Camila revs the engine when she pulls into the parking spot.
I laugh as she secures the car in place, turning the car off.
“Don’t laugh! I’m not used to supercars,” she whines.
It’s her second time driving it. The first time was when she drove away from me at the lodge—but she refused to let me drive while I’m in pain.
I don’t mind being coddled by my Angel. It’s different from when Jac refuses to let me in on anything now, though.
Once again, he wants me to be fully recovered.
I don’t blame him. I think about that drive back to the house, to find Camila missing, and I let him throw around his demands.
But not for long.
We step out into the cold air, small plumes of frost billowing out of our breaths. Camila opens the boot, pulling out a bouquet of cherry blossoms.
“Where did you find those?” I ask.
“One of the trees at the lodge bloomed a little earlier.” She shrugs.
She drove an hour to the lodge just to pick up blossoms to lay on my father’s grave because the blossoms at the mansion haven’t bloomed yet.
This woman.
My heart squeezes as she beams at me. I tilt her chin with my fingers, placing a kiss on her cold lips. “I love you.”
“I love you,” she whispers.
The cemetery is hauntingly quiet but beautiful.
I always knew where my father was buried, but I never visited his grave. Camila managed to obtain directions through email to exactly where his plot is. We walk up a hill, taking a left through tall trees and neatly cut, frosty grass around graves until we reach the middle.
An overgrown gravestone, burnt-out candles, and wilted flowers. Ones so old that you could probably lift them and they would crumble straight away.
“Oh no,” Camila says, her voice carrying a tone of sadness. “I’m sorry,” she says, checking for my reaction.
I don’t know how to feel.
A little disappointed that no family members from my dad’s side even bother to ask for an upkeep of his grave.
But then, have I?
“It’s not your fault, baby,” she says, entwining her hand with mine.
The writing on the gravestone is still visible.
Eric Alexander Warren
1965-2008
Father, husband, and friend
Gone but never forgotten
A lump forms in my throat, eyes prickling.
“I miss him,” I admit through a tight throat.
“I know,” she sighs, resting her head on my arm.
After a few moments of silence, she steps forward, placing the brightly coloured—in contrast to the wilted flowers—blossoms on top of the rust-coloured shrubs.
“I know he’s proud of you.”
I raise my eyebrow at her. “Really?”
She snorts. “Aside from all the crime.” She whispers the last word. “But proud, no doubt.”
I sigh as I wrap my arm around her. “Do you ever wonder about your dad?”
She shakes her head. “I never knew my dad. He left when my mum announced her pregnancy. She was always happy single; there was never a man in our house. I’ve never had a father figure.”
I think about my future children, a pang of guilt hitting me in the chest. I could never leave, would never leave Camila, let alone my own children.
“We’ll get his grave cleaned up,” she promises.
We head back towards the car in the crisp morning air.
My father might not be here anymore, but in this moment, I feel him. I feel the sorrow, the apology, and the pride.
Walking back through the open black gates feels like closure.