29. fallon
TWENTY-NINE
fallon
T he wind howls through the cemetery, a mournful whisper that carries the scent of damp earth and cold steel. I stand in front of their graves, my parents’ names etched in simple, cold stone—like something you might see on a monument to a stranger.
But they weren’t strangers. They were my parents. And standing here, staring at their names carved into the earth, I feel the hollow ache of their absence, a raw wound that has never quite healed.
It’s been just over a year since I buried them. A year since I last saw their faces, heard their voices, felt their warmth. It doesn’t feel like enough time has passed. I still expect to see my mom’s soft, reassuring smile when I enter a room. I still find myself wishing I could ask my dad for advice, for reassurance. Every day feels like I’m walking through life without a map or direction, and I hate it.
I hate the emptiness in my chest. I hate how the grief has become a constant companion, lingering in the corners of my mind, wrapping itself around me like a cloak I can’t escape.
There were times, right after it happened, when I didn’t even know how to breathe. I was suffocating in the thick fog of my own guilt, my own self-loathing. I had begged them to pick me up that night, my graduation night, when I should’ve been celebrating with friends. I’d been drunk. They hadn’t even been drinking. I should’ve known better. I should’ve never called them.
But I had. I had called them, and they had come. They had died because of me.
The thought still hits me like a wave crashing against the shore, pulling me under, suffocating me. The guilt is always there, like an anchor at the bottom of my soul, dragging me into the depths.
I blink rapidly, forcing myself to breathe. My chest feels tight like the air in this cemetery was made of lead, pressing down on me. My fingers tremble as I wipe my eyes, hoping the cold wind will dry them faster than my hands could.
It was easy to forget about the pain, to ignore the fact that I couldn’t breathe when I was with Fitz. When I was with him, the world felt different. It felt brighter. He had a way of turning my brain off—making me forget everything that hurt. He made me feel alive again like I hadn’t felt since that night. He made me forget my parents for a while, forget my grief, forget everything that was suffocating me.
I had fallen for him so quickly. Too quickly, I realized now. But it wasn’t just the way he looked at me. It wasn’t just his smile or voice that made my heart race. It was the way he made me feel like I could breathe again. The way he gave me a moment to escape the pain, to escape the guilt that never left.
He had become an addiction. A temporary fix to the constant ache inside me. When I was with him, I could forget the sadness. I could forget that I had no idea how to live without my parents.
But that was the problem, wasn’t it?
I had clung to him like a lifeline. I had clung to him so tightly because he made me feel something other than the weight of the grief that threatened to swallow me whole. I had fallen for him too fast, too recklessly, because I was desperate for anything that could make the world stop spinning for just a moment. I had jumped into his warmth because it was easier than dealing with the cold inside me.
But it was never going to be enough. I had known that from the start. Fitz wasn’t the solution to my pain. He couldn’t heal the wound I had carried for so long, no matter how much I wished he could.
I inhale deeply, steadying myself against the gust of wind that sweeps through the cemetery. The grave markers are cold beneath my fingertips, and the earth feels heavy around me as if it were trying to remind me that my parents were gone. Gone forever. I had to accept that. I had to let go of the guilt and the fear. I had to stop holding on to the past and start figuring out how to live in the present.
But it isn’t that simple. Not for me.
I’ve pushed so many people away and kept them at arm’s length because I was terrified of losing them like I had lost my parents. The thought of getting close to someone, of letting them in, made my chest tighten with panic. I couldn’t do that again. I couldn’t bear to feel that kind of pain again.
But with Fitz, it felt different. With him, I convinced myself that I could let go of the fear. Perhaps I could let myself fall.
And now, after everything that happened and went wrong, I wasn’t sure I could handle losing him too.
I wasn’t sure I could survive that.
She’s pregnant. The woman he was with at the banquet, that beautiful woman, is carrying his child. Since meeting her, I’ve imagined a hundred different scenarios, but each ends similarly.
He’s gone, too. Some part of me still hoped he’d come back—that he’d run into the store with apologies and explanations. But not even a text came through to warn me that there was someone else—that I might someday meet her and learn of their child.
And now, I need to let him go, too.
Maybe we’ll meet again someday, five years from now, when our lives are put together.
I’ll tell him how desperately in love with him I was.
Baring my soul to him still wouldn’t be enough to convey how each breath I took was achingly, soul-crushingly tied to his. How I noticed our steps were always in-sync.
How I would’ve willingly gone to my grave trying to break down his walls. I would’ve crawled there myself, nails dugs into the dirt, knees bruised and scraped if it meant he realized how miserable I was without him.
Like he took a piece of me that he never returned.
It’ll live within him forever. Blood gushing, unstitched.
I’ll tell him. Even if we only cross paths for a moment. If it’s the last tick of a watch, only seconds with him, I promise he’ll know how dearly I needed him.
Even if the world is crumbling around us, he’ll know.
I look down at the graves again, the words on the stones blurring as the tears threaten to spill over once more. It was easier to be angry at myself than to accept the truth—that they were gone and nothing could bring them back. Not Fitz. Not anyone.
The wind picks up again, and I turn my face into it, letting the cold sting my skin. I need to clear my head, find a way to move on and breathe again.
Just as I’m about to turn and walk away, I freeze. My heart skips a beat.
I know that feeling. The one that prickles my skin, the one that makes me feel like I’m not alone anymore.
I turn slowly, and there he is—standing at the edge of the cemetery, his silhouette outlined against the pale sky. Fitz.
His presence hits me like a shockwave, his eyes locking on mine even from a distance. He stands still, waiting for me to make the first move as if he isn’t sure he should approach me.
I don’t know what to say. My heart is racing, and my emotions are a chaotic mess of confusion and longing.
I’ve never wanted to see anyone more than I want to see him now. But I’m not ready to face him. Not yet. Not when everything inside me is so tangled up in him and my fear.
He starts to move toward me, his footsteps slow but purposeful. I feel the ground shift beneath me as he closes the distance, and before I can even catch my breath, he’s standing in front of me. He’s so close that I can feel his warmth and smell the faint trace of his cologne.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” he says quietly, his voice rough. “I’ve been looking for you. I… I had to see you.”
I swallow hard, the words sticking in my throat. “Why?” I manage to ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Because I couldn’t leave things the way they were,” he says, his eyes searching mine. “And I… I’d like to know what happened to them. I wish you would’ve told me, Fallon.”
I wipe the tears from my cheeks with the palm of my hand. “Honesty was never our strong suit, Hayes.”
It’s the first time I’ve ever called him that. Hayes Fitzgerald—the son of the billionaire Frank Fitzgerald. I googled them on the flight over. FFJ Holdings has its own stock, for God’s sake. That’s how large their corporation is. And I was concerned about how much I paid Fitz for moving a few boxes around. “Speaking of, I have so many questions.”
“So do I.” He gestures behind me at the headstones. “What happened to them, Fallon?”
I shake my head slowly as tears roll down my cheeks. “I can’t… I can’t tell you. You’ll think I’m awful.” I inhale a stuttering breath. “They died because of me.”
“Fallon,” he says gently, but his voice comes out rough like he can’t believe the implication. He reaches out, his hand hovering momentarily before placing it on my shoulder. I flinch slightly at the contact, but I don’t pull away. “I promise you that’s impossible. I’d like your side of the story.”
“I was at a bar with my friends that night—graduation night, you know?” My voice trembles as I speak, my hands wringing before me. “We were celebrating, just drinking and acting like we had the whole world ahead of us. But I drank too much. Way too much.” I swallow hard, closing my eyes for a moment as if the memories are still too painful to relive. “I wasn’t thinking straight, and I promised my dad I’d always call him if I needed a ride home. So, I did. I called them, and they showed up, laughing like they always did.” A faint smile crosses my face, but it quickly falters. “My mom was trying to sing along with me as we drove off, and my dad kept making jokes about how loud I was. It was supposed to be a funny, happy memory, but it isn’t anymore.”
I pause, staring into the distance, and my shoulders slump as the weight of the moment presses down on her. “As we were pulling out of the parking lot, there was this drunk guy—he was leaving at the same time. He got into his truck, but he wasn’t paying attention. He hit the gas too hard, and before we even knew what happened, he rammed right into our car.” My voice cracks, and I take a shaky breath, my hands clenching into fists as the memory hits me again. “The impact was so much stronger than I ever could have imagined. My parents didn’t survive.”
My gaze drops to my trembling hands. “I woke up in the hospital hours later, and they told me they were gone. I’ve never stopped blaming myself, Hayes.” My voice is barely a whisper now, the weight of my confession hanging in the air between them. “If I hadn’t been so drunk or if I hadn’t called them, maybe they’d still be here.” My chest tightens, and I look up at him, my eyes brimming with unshed tears. “It’s hard to look at myself and not feel like I’m the reason they died. After that night, I couldn’t face what happened, so I left. I cut off all my friends, let a realtor handle selling my childhood home, and never looked back.”
When I look at Fitz, I expect to see the same look on his face that everyone gave me after their deaths—pity. But instead, he’s looking at me with nothing but understanding. “Fallon… it’s not your fault.”
I swallow while shaking my head, words unable to form. A sob escapes me, and I wrap my hand around my throat, trying to soothe the burning. It is my fault. It has to be.
“Fallon, listen to me.” He steps closer and grips my shoulders tight enough to hold my attention. “What happened to them is horrible. I know it’s difficult to understand, but you did not cause that accident. You didn’t ask for it to happen.”
“It should’ve been me,” I whisper weakly.
“Fuck, Fallon, no.” He pulls me into him, his arms enveloping me. “Imagine if they had lost you, Fallon. Imagine the guilt they’d feel for your death. They still would’ve died that day. They’d be alive, yes, but not living.” He presses his lips against my hair. “Don’t ever think that again, Fallon.”
“You don’t think I’m broken?” I ask, my voice small, fearing he will see me differently once the weight of my grief becomes clear.
He pulls away to lift my chin, wiping the tears from my cheeks. “No, Fallon. You’re not broken. You’re hurting. You’ve been through hell, and you’re still standing. That’s not a weakness. That’s strength.”
“You don’t know what it’s like,” I whisper, my voice filled with vulnerability. “To carry that guilt, to feel like you’re responsible for something that should never have happened.”
He leans in, his forehead almost touching mine, and for a moment, everything else fades away. It’s just the two of us, standing on the edge of something unspoken, something raw.
“I don’t know what it’s like to lose my parents like you did,” he admits softly. “But I know what it’s like to carry pain. And I know it’s not easy to let it go. But you have to, Fallon. You have to forgive yourself.”
I realized then, more than ever, how much I needed to hear those words. How much I need to believe them.