Pompous Player (Cocky Hero Club)

But first, I have to face the sadness. I turn onto the path that will lead me to Mallory’s plot, glancing at the map again to see how far down the path it is.

It’s all the way at the end. The plot is large and fully shaded by a giant oak tree. Tears pool in my eyes as I walk closer and see the large, pale pink marble headstone. It was her favorite color, and it’s also a nod to her battle with breast cancer.

Grass is beginning to cover the earth that was dug up to bury Mal’s ashes. I kneel beside the soft, short blades and read the words engraved on the stone.

Mallory Nicole Crow

Beloved mother, daughter and friend

I brush my fingertips over the letters, and then over the dates of Mallory’s birth and death. After holding my grief in for so long, it feels good to cry. I cry hard, for the friend I lost, for the mother Avery lost, and for the bright light the entire world lost. I also cry because Harry did this. He gave Mal the peaceful, beautiful resting place she deserved.

“He’s not as awful as I thought,” I say softly. “I actually think…maybe he’s not awful at all.”

I swipe my fingertips beneath my eyes and put my palm on the ground where Mal’s ashes are buried. This is my chance to tell her how her baby girl is doing.

“Avery is so beautiful. She smiles all the time, and she has a tooth. She loves bath time and she’s finally sleeping through the night. Well, mostly.” I smile. “Harry plays French opera music for her sometimes. Just the audio. She always looks mesmerized by the sounds. I think she actually likes French opera, so obviously she’s advanced for her age. She also likes Little Einsteins, or Baby Einstein, or I don’t know, it’s something like that. She likes music.”

A breeze blows through and I stop talking, looking up at the outstretched branches of the oak tree and letting the cool wind caress my face.

“Oh, Mal. I don’t even know how I got here. It seems like yesterday we were celebrating your pregnancy and planning all the epic adventures we’d take Avery on when she was older. And now…now you’re gone and I’m an absolute mess over Harry.”

I cry some more, willing every unshed tear to fall. This is the first time I’ve let myself truly grieve since losing my dearest friend.

“What should I do, Mal?” I ask after crying to the point I’m sniffling and hiccupping. “Harry said he loves me and I think…” I sigh deeply. “I think I love him, too. He’s a great father to Avery. And he’s…different than I thought he would be.”

I lie down then, curling up on my side and pressing a cheek to the fresh grass. When I close my eyes, I feel a sense of quiet calmness.

“I’d never do anything to hurt you,” I say softly. “I just wish you could tell me if this thing with me and Harry is okay with you.”

There are no answers, though—only the rustle of the leaves above and the silent stillness of the cemetery. Still, I’m glad I came. Now that I’ve been here, it won’t be as hard to return in the future. In fact, I look forward to it. I can bring a Christmas wreath, and spring flowers.

This is Mallory’s sacred place. Harry was right—it feels good having it.

“I love you and I miss you so much,” I say, kissing my fingertips and touching them to her headstone before rising from the ground.

Harry wants an answer from me, but I still don’t have one.

With a last look at Mallory’s name on the headstone, I turn and walk back down the path that brought me here. Even the bright afternoon sun isn’t enough to stay warm on this chilly fall day. I’m pulling my gloves from my bag when I hear a man’s voice calling out behind me.

“Young lady! Excuse me!”

I look over my shoulder and see an older man hurrying toward me, a bunch of flowers tucked under one arm. He’s a Black man who looks like he’s in his seventies, wearing a wool trench coat and black dress shoes shined to perfection.

“Everything okay?” I ask him, walking the few steps to meet him.

“Oh, certainly,” he says, giving me a wide smile. “It’s a beautiful day out here, don’t you think?”

“I do.” I smile back, hoping he’s not going to try to sell me something.

“I came here to visit my Helen’s grave,” he says, pointing in the opposite direction I came from. “I come here every Saturday to bring fresh flowers for her. She was a florist, you know. She loved her flowers.”

“How sweet of you. How long were you married?”

His dark eyes shine proudly. “The best fifty-nine years of my life. Four kids and eleven grandkids.”