Chapter 31 Dread
DREAD
Reverie chews on the skin around her thumbnail as we make the forty-five-minute drive to the mountain. The air between us is tense and quiet, and I argue with myself over whether I should break it.
A month ago, I probably would’ve enjoyed watching her squirm and fret. Now, I just want to hold her hand.
I’m so goddamn fucked.
However, she doesn’t ask questions, so I keep silent.
By the time I pull into a dirt driveway with overgrown leaves and bushes invading the path, she finally drops her hand to her lap, a bead of blood bubbling around her nail.
The tension thickens, and my car wobbles as I drive down the uneven terrain, bringing us farther away from civilization and deeper into the mountain.
I can feel her anxiety heighten, and once again, I’m overwhelmed with the urge to grab her hand and reassure her.
Except she wouldn’t believe me, and it enrages me that whatever little trust I built with her is gone. Her father may have ruined my progress, but there’s no one truly to blame but myself.
A small wooden cottage breaks free from the wild foliage surrounding us, the mountain at its back, its blue shadow just barely peeking through the thick fog.
I park right outside of it and turn off the engine. She silently stares at the cottage for several beats before turning her attention to me, a silent question in the air.
I don’t turn to meet her probing stare, already hearing the remnants of forgotten memories, and I feel nothing outside of the entourage of emotions flooding through my system.
It happens every time I come here. Even after thirteen years, the pain, the sadness, the grief—it’s still as powerful as the day I watched my mother walk out that front door.
“I buried my mom here.”
From my peripheral, Reverie’s mouth opens then closes again, seeming both surprised and confused.
“What? How?” Her voice is barely above a whisper, but it could be because my heart is pounding hard enough to rattle my rib cage.
This is the most sacred place on Earth to me, and showing Reverie Adams where half my soul lies might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.
“For obvious reasons, my grandmother chose to cremate her, though we would’ve even if Lionel hadn’t done what he did to her body.
After my dad passed, she had those tough conversations with me about our bodies and how they decompose.
” I shrug a shoulder. “Don’t know if she should’ve, really, but I always appreciated it.
My mom was always really big on honesty, so when I asked questions about where my dad’s body went, she answered.
Anyway, she told me some people have specific requests for how they’d like to be put to rest, so I asked about hers.
So, obviously, when she died, I honored her request.”
The second I knew I’d be following her to Hollow Canyon, the first thing I did was look for a place for my mom.
It took me weeks of scouring the internet before I stumbled upon this abandoned cottage up for sale.
Instantly, it felt like home. I stared at the pictures for hours, and, even through a screen, I couldn’t shake the undeniable feeling that bringing her here was exactly where she was meant to be.
I wasted no time buying it and hiring a contractor to fix up the cottage and restore it to its previous glory.
It’s not often I get the chance to stay out here, but when I do, I never want to leave.
“What was her request?” Rev asks quietly.
“Let me show you,” I say before opening my door and stepping out, prompting her to follow suit.
I say nothing as I head to the right and away from the front door. Reverie follows behind me silently as I lead her around the corner of the cottage and toward the back, opening directly into a small, open garden.
Everything is barren and dead-looking now, but during the summer, the foliage is bright, full of life and color.
I stop before an area against the back of the house, right by the glass sliding door that leads inside, and peer down at the limp, dried plant spread amongst the soil, the crispy petals brown and tan.
“She’s not so pretty in the winter,” I say casually. “But in the spring, she’s fucking beautiful, and the petals are a vivid strawberry red. I’ve always found it a little funny that my mom wanted to be a plant called bleeding hearts. I think she had a pretty dark sense of humor.”
“I—” Reverie pauses for several beats. “I’m confused… She's a plant?”
A grin tilts up one side of my mouth, understanding her confusion all too well. I stuff my hands into my pockets, letting the plant fade and inviting in the memories of my mother’s smiling face.
“Yeah. I didn’t really understand it at first, either.
She loved to garden, and I would help her weed and plant flowers and vegetables every summer.
” My smile widens until both sides curl, memories of a younger version of myself—a much happier version—engulfing me.
“Except my way of helping was kind of just tossing dirt around. But, yeah, there’s a company that offers biodegradable urns.
” I glance at her as she stares down at the dried petals, tilting her head curiously.
“Fun fact: human ashes are actually pretty harmful for plant life, but these urns are designed specifically for it, so you store the remains in the urn until you’re ready to plant it, and then you add these nutrients and shit on top to protect the roots. ”
“Huh,” she chirps, sounding fascinated. “That’s actually pretty incredible.”
I chuckle. “Honestly, I don’t think she was even aware ashes were bad for plants, and I think this urn was invented maybe a decade ago, but if it wasn’t, I probably would’ve gone insane trying to keep all this shit alive.”
She lets out a soft laugh, and my heart skips at the sound. “Why did she want to be a bleeding heart plant?”
“They were her favorite because the petals look like actual hearts when they’re in bloom. I think she found it poetic, too, with how it feels like our hearts bleed when we’re grieving.” I offer a tiny, nonchalant shrug. “Like I said, a little dark, but that’s who she was.”
I feel Reverie’s stare burning into the side of my face, but all I can see is my mom—her dark hair piled into a messy bun with small strands wildly sticking out, streaks of dirt smudged over her cheek, and these threadbare overalls she refused to get rid of, even though they were full of holes and stains.
I blink, and the world comes back into view.
“My grandmother knew my mom’s wishes, so she put her in a pretty urn and decided to let me plant her when I was old enough.
She knew it would mean the world to me to choose where, but I think she also knew I wasn’t going to stay in California forever, so she didn’t want to risk killing the plant if I had to uproot it later.
Once I knew I was leaving out of state for college, I did a lot of googling and found the biodegradable urn, transferred my mom’s ashes over to it, and carried her with me until I could plant her in her forever home. ”
Rev’s stare doesn’t waver as she quietly asks, “And you chose here? Why?”
I slide my gaze to her, colliding with warm copper. Her expression is soft, clear of any previous anger and anxiety.
“Because you’re here.”
She blinks, taken aback, then frowns with confusion.
“You could’ve chosen anywhere in the world, and we’d be standing right here, just with a different background,” I tell her, holding her bewildered stare.
“I didn’t always understand why, but I knew I would follow you anywhere.
Even if it was to hate you, I still wanted nothing more than to be with you. ”
Her throat bobs as she works to swallow, and she quickly turns her gaze back to the ground. Her brows knit, seeming to struggle to comprehend my words.
I face forward again, giving her the space to process something I hadn’t fully realized until it was pouring off my tongue.
“You followed me here.”
It’s not a question, but a conclusion she must’ve always known deep down yet never admitted to herself.
I nod slowly.
“I watched you when we were teenagers,” I confess.
From my peripheral, I see her head snap back toward me with shock, but I feel no guilt.
Stalking her is the least of my crimes. “If I wasn’t obsessively stalking you on social media, I’d sneak away, catch a bus, and find you wherever you were.
Most times, you were home, but I knew who your friends were, which ones you were closest to.
” I glance at her, a shameless grin curling my lips.
“I knew where they lived, too, for the times you slept over with them. I wanted to watch you live a happy life so I’d have more of a reason to hate you. ”
A beat passes before she quietly asks, “And did you get what you wanted?”
I contemplate that for a moment before admitting, “No, but I only see that now. Your friends were superficial and didn’t understand grief and trauma the same way you understood it.
They would look at you like they didn’t know what to do with you when they thought you weren’t watching.
I think you caught some of those stares, though.
Is that why you don’t talk to them anymore? ”
She cocks her head. “What makes you think I don’t?”
I arch a brow, my lips twitching. She’s incapable of understanding just how well I know her, how long and intently I’ve studied her.
“Because I know what loneliness looks like.”
She glances away, tightening her lips into a firm line, involuntarily confirming what I already knew to be true.