Stranded.
And feeling too many things, and watching every single emotion cross her face like I was looking in a mirror, watching my own emotions, experiencing them on repeat while she talked.
“These weren’t bad.” Keaton offered me a smile as she stood and tried to lift her plate only to stare at it like its shape was offensive.
“I’ve got dishes.” I quickly grabbed her plate and mine and went to deposit them in the sink. “You go get your laptop.”
“But—”
“Any better ideas? I mean we could play cards or get naked again if that’s your preference?” It was a joke. Kind of. Not really. And even if it was, not very funny, and done in poor taste. It was the insanity rearing its ugly head again.
At least the idea of us being naked was distasteful enough for her to stomp over to the couch, manage to grab her laptop lightly between her bandaged hands, and sit.
I wasn’t sure if I was disappointed or offended; then again, one of us needed to keep a clear head, and since mine was still recovering from a month-long coma right along with a broken heart, she wasn’t a bad choice in being the rational one.
I turned off the water to the sink, wiped my hands, and made my way toward the couch. She was sitting cross-legged, her simple black T-shirt clinging to her body like a second skin, and her laptop pressing against her chest like she was trying to hug it for comfort. “It’s going to hurt.”
I sighed and took a seat next to her. “Your hands?”
She shook her head. “My heart.”
“Knowledge of pain is knowledge of life . . . it’s like cutting off your blood circulation, suddenly you feel nothing, you just watch the blood—life itself—leave a part of your body. The pain you feel later, the tiny prick of needles attacking your skin, is the side effect of healing, it must happen for healing to take place. The pain gives life, and one day, the pain . . . it will stop. Today . . . isn’t that day, princess.”
She looked at me then, her crystal-blue eyes filled to the rim with tears she looked hell-bent on not shedding. “That was . . .” Her voice cracked. “One of the most logical and beautiful things anyone has said to me since the funeral.”
I scowled. “Funerals.” The very thought of public mourning of the dead made my skin crawl. Never again.
“Funerals,” she agreed in an expressionless tone, but she seemed to flinch at the word. “Sorry for your loss, Keaton! Like I lost my phone, or my keys, or my mind. The word gains and loses its power based on the phrases on both sides of loss. I’m sorry for your loss says it all, and yet when you hear that, you still hold on to hope that you can find it again. It’s a death, not just a personal loss, it’s never coming back. Never.”
My chest felt heavy as I listened. I didn’t want to hear her words. I didn’t want to talk about funerals. I was there to forget.
But the universe had other ideas.
Apparently, I was cursed to remember.
And it hurt like fuck.
What would Mom want in this situation?
What would she even do?
Hug her?
Offer more words?
I eyed the computer.
I thought of Mom’s easy smile, of her ridiculous obsession with historical romance, and the way she had always seemed to have the shiniest hair despite the lack of vitamins in her system, and I remembered the times I’d find her on this very couch, reading her books, smiling to herself, most likely wishing for her own happily-ever-after.
Dreaming.
Her love for words rivaled her love for life.
And now that she was gone. All I had were words and memories to survive on.
Words.
I didn’t question it. I reached out and grabbed Keaton’s computer while she watched. I opened it, clicked on Microsoft Word, and started a new document. I typed in “Losing Him,” saved it.
And then I wrote.
The power of the word depends on the presence of other words in the sentence, but nothing will ever be as powerful as a word. Nothing lasts forever and reveals more of itself over time as you mature—the written word does. These are Keaton Westbrook’s words. Some will hold power, some will take it away, but every single one will bleed with love. Because just like words—love lasts forever.
“What are you typing?” Keaton finally asked.
I turned the laptop toward her and whispered, “The beginning.”
Her tears didn’t fall, but she covered her mouth with her hands and nodded. “It’s perfect.”
“You’re the one that said it.”
“Not that eloquently.”
“Where do you want to go next, Keaton Westbrook?”
Her eyes flashed to mine, and then a small smile spread across her lips. “It’s going to hurt.”
“It’s going to hurt.” I nodded.
“We go to the beginning . . .” She reached for me with her covered hand. “I just may need more support from a perfect stranger to get through it.”