The Girl in the Painting

“Since Adam,” I finish for her, and she nods.

“I see now that you weren’t happy…” She pauses and her voice shakes. “That you haven’t been happy. God, I’m so sorry. I should’ve told you.”

I shake my head because that’s all I can do. I should be mad at her. Incredibly pissed, even. I should feel betrayed that she didn’t tell me the truth.

I felt like I had finally gotten my sister back. Her words repeat inside of my mind over and over again, and once the initial shock wears off, it’s impossible for me to be mad at her.

And I don’t feel betrayed. I mostly just understand.

Before Matt, I was a bit of a mess. Actually, I was a real fucking mess. A shell of myself. I barely spent time with my family, and doing simple tasks like taking a shower and going to work felt like the world’s biggest feats. And just before I started dating Matt, I made a point to change my miserable, hermit ways. I didn’t want to be the sad girl who was letting her life pass her by.

Beneath all the wreckage, I wanted to find myself again.

So, eventually, I started to open myself up to my family, my friends, life.

I started going out and doing things. Drinks with friends. Family dinners. Outings with Lil.

By the time I was in a relationship with Matt, I was at least trying to be me again. I was trying not to be so isolated. I was simply trying. And I think it’s safe to say my sister misconstrued Matt as being the reason for the positive change.

Of course, she should have told me the truth. But deep down, I know her fear was what held back the truth.

Fear that I would crawl back into my pathetic shell again.

Fear that I’d go right back to the sad, mostly absentee sister.

“You should go visit him,” she says, pulling me from my thoughts. “Adam, I mean. Matt can go fuck himself.”

I laugh despite the fucking mess that is my life right now, and Lily smiles her sweetest smile through the apologetic emotion that still rests beneath her eyelids.

“You need to get some sort of closure,” she adds on a soft whisper, and I know she’s right.

Before I can move on to Ansel, to any of the things I want from him—with him—or to the painting I saw in his studio, I have to go back.

To the day that changed me forever.

Indy

The soles of my boots sink into the snow-covered ground and leave a path of my footsteps behind me. It’s cold, frigid, even, but I hardly notice as I walk across the grounds of the cemetery.

Just beyond the big oak tree and past the tragic section of gravestones in memoriam of an entire family with the last name Conroy, I stop at my intended destination.

In Memory of Adam Thomas Lane.

His gravestone is as white as the crystalline snow. It stands here, before me, with its youthful glow, strong, erect, and ready to last a hundred years. Yet I’ll never see Adam’s golden skin, his tall frame, or his brown eyes. I’ll never see him behind the lens of his camera or flashing that handsome smile.

There’s such cruel irony in that.

I reach out with a gloved hand to touch the marble and run my fingers over the engraved black lettering, but quickly, I remove the glove. My bare fingers blanch in the wintry wind, but I don’t care.

Somehow, the feel of the stone on my skin brings me some peace. It’s beautiful, polished and smooth. It was the most expensive option in the catalogue, and Adam’s mom and I chose it without hesitation. He will never see it, of course; he will never know, but we will. I will.

I bend down to read the lettering at eye level.

Loving fiancé, son, grandson, nephew, and friend.

My heart clenches, and I run my whole hand over the stone.

Died January 31st.

The day that changed my life forever.

For the longest time, I used to come to this cemetery, to Adam’s grave, when I felt like my foundation would crumble if I didn’t speak to him again, like an unsteady Jenga tower with someone tugging at a crucial brick.

I would spend hours upon hours here, just talking to him. I know it sounds ridiculous, but somehow, for the first year, this slice of stone steadied me enough that I could go back to my life, go back to trying to move on.

As time went on, my visits became less frequent.

Until they became pretty much nonexistent.

I don’t know why I stopped coming here, but I think I’d reached a point where I was simply trying to live my life. It wasn’t that I was forgetting Adam, I could never forget him, but I just didn’t need to come here to remember him, to talk to him.