That terrible, beautiful feeling #2
And all I can think about is the tower and the way he ran into it without hesitation. The way he got me out in time. The way Colt didn’t.
I quietly back out of the room before the thoughts can finish spiraling properly and head out the back door, but the guest house doesn’t help.
I make it as far as the bathroom before I realize I’m just standing there staring at the tub while my mind keeps replaying smoke and sirens and collapsing beams.
Too loud. Everything feels too fucking loud.
I walk back outside into the early summer air, wrapping my hoodie tighter around myself despite the warmth of the morning.
There’s a little cluster of pebbles lined up in a row near the garden, and I smile, wondering if they’re from the collection Elle insisted on bringing back the last time we were at the lake.
The thought settles through me slowly.
The lake. The only place my brain has ever gone properly quiet.
I make my way back through the house and out to the porch, and on my way, I see the donation bags still sitting there, waiting for one of us to deliver them downtown.
Three black bags full of Elle’s old clothes and toys she’s outgrown.
I’d promised Frankie I’d drop them at the charity shop days ago and never got around to it.
Beside them sit my silver heels. One of them is half-broken after Elle decided to clomp dramatically around the house in them two nights ago, pretending she was “going to a princess business meeting.” The heel cap’s hanging loose now, and I need to get it fixed.
Before I can overthink it, I start loading everything into the trunk of my car. Donation bags go in first, then the heels, balanced awkwardly on top while I shove the last bag further inside.
There’s a dull clack against the driveway, but my mind’s already elsewhere entirely as I sit behind the wheel.
My eyes dart back to the donation bags filling half the rearview mirror, and I have a vague thought about dropping them off before heading to the lake.
Instead, I start the engine and back out of the driveway, heading in the opposite direction to the store—or lake.
Ten minutes later, I'm parked outside Remi's house.
The front garden is overflowing with flowers she told me they planted months ago with Max.
He'd thrown the seeds haphazardly into the soil while she wasn't looking, and now wild splashes of color spill across the garden beds.
Most of them are still bright and flourishing, but some are beginning to wilt around the edges.
My eyes move to the front window, where I can see cards lining the inside windowsill.
Thinking of you.
With deepest sympathy.
Gone too soon.
My stomach twists, and for a second I consider putting the car into reverse and leaving. But before I can, the front door swings open.
Remi stands there in leggings and an oversized grey hoodie that definitely belongs to Colt.
My throat closes instantly, because grief has changed her. The spark that usually lives behind her eyes has dimmed, and her shoulders seem narrower somehow. Smaller, like she’s avoiding being seen.
It’s so at odds with the Remi Lawson I know, the woman who is everyone’s friend, whose smile could absolutely light up a room—even though she’d hate the cliché.
I open my door and slide out, quietly making my way up to the front porch. For a second, neither of us speaks. I lick my lips, look down at the ground and decide what to say.
Sorry for your loss.
How are you today.
I’ve been thinking of you every second since I caused this fucking nightmare.
I raise my head, and try to gauge what she needs to hear, but her face softens.
“Penny.”
Something inside me cracks. “Hey.”
She steps aside and gestures to the open front door. “You gonna stand out here all day thinking of what to say?”
I almost laugh. Almost. Because the house feels wrong the second I walk inside. It’s as though somebody has shifted all the furniture half an inch overnight.
Colt's boots still sit inside the door, and his jacket hangs off the coat stand. A half-finished crossword rests on the coffee table as we walk into the sitting room, and the sight of it steals the air from my lungs.
Remi notices where I'm looking. “I can't move his stuff yet.”
“You don't have to,” I croak.
She nods slowly. “I know.”
But neither of us really believes that. The silence stretches between us as she leads me into the kitchen, where there’s fresh coffee in the pot.
I watch her carefully pour two cups, and feel the cold tips of her fingers as they brush mine when she hands me one. Neither of us drinks any though, instead we sit across from each other at the dining table.
The same table where Colt probably used to steal food jokingly off his kid's plates, and where Remi had told me he'd laughed so hard one night he nearly choked on garlic bread. His memories are everywhere.
My hands twist together in my lap. “How are you?”
The question sounds stupid the second it leaves my mouth, and I feel like an idiot for asking as Remi lets out a tired huff.
“Pretty shit, honestly.”
A watery laugh escapes my throat. “Yeah.”
“Some days have been okay.” She picks absent-mindedly at a chip in the tabletop. "Some days I forget for five seconds, but…” Her voice catches. “Then I remember again.”
The kitchen goes quiet and I stare at the table, because looking at her hurts. It guts me to my fucking bones, and if this is how I feel I can only imagine the hurt she can’t escape. So I don’t look. I can’t.