I trolled every internet site on afterlife, suicide, and soul-mates finding each other in the ether. I tried drinking special teas that forums said would give me dreams that would connect me to some spiritual awareness.
I Googled for any hint of where Jacob might’ve run to.
My internet provider probably had me flagged if Michael ever turned up dead.
And in the end, I had to let it go.
I couldn’t let death drag me into some prison of my own making, and I couldn’t let Jacob steal the future he didn’t want with me.
When I’d returned to Scotland with Dad, I’d accepted the role in the crime drama he said I’d be perfect for and flew to England to begin shooting on location.
At least the cute countryside helped stitch together some of my missing pieces. The rolling paddocks and patchwork prettiness hinted at a different way of life if I’d only been brave enough to make Jacob accept me.
Every time he came into my mind, I resolutely shoved him back out again.
I’d shed enough tears over him.
I’d been broken on the plane ride home.
The way he’d looked at me, so cold and detached, ensured I’d cried myself to sleep for months. Between crying for Della and him, I’d drained myself to the point of having to move on or fade away into sorrow.
So I threw myself into acting and, although I did my best, I wasn’t good enough. The script was awful and the directing subpar—a trifecta of disaster.
Reviews were scathing, and the show wasn’t renewed, which meant after a year of being the actress I never wanted to be, I had a choice.
At eighteen, I was still so young, but I knew what I wanted to do, and thanks to Keeko’s diligent teaching, I had eloquent writing skills and an imagination full of happy and sad things.
I couldn’t be a farmer’s girl.
But I would be the next best thing.
I bought myself a laptop with a long battery life and, for most of that year, I stayed in England, writing in open fields of farms I wasn’t invited on. Watching men and women toil the land, rubbing my heart as it swelled with jealousy.
And slowly, that jealousy transmuted into a script.
Once it was finished, I asked Keeko to edit it for me, then grew enough balls to show it to a producer Dad put me in touch with.
The guy hated it.
Despised it.
And wasn’t shy about telling me how atrocious it was.
I’d nodded and accepted yet another dream dashed but he’d patted my hand after tearing my work to shreds and said my story might be terrible, but my writing was not. He needed a co-writer on a TV show called Rogue Rascal—a simple plot of a morgue director who took it upon himself to hunt and kill those who murdered the clients he was hired to bury—and offered me a job.
It appealed to my morbid side, and the co-writer, Ashley Sleugh, was witty and smart, ensuring the script had punchy dialogue and imaginative ways of extermination.
I accepted.
And life crept forward.
Eighteen became nineteen.
Nineteen became twenty.
During the waking hours, I was totally fine. I’d schooled myself enough to forget about Jacob Wild. But during the witching hours? My heart was louder than my mind, and it opened dusty drawers where memories stayed hidden, tormenting me with everything I’d loved and lost.
I’d found who I wanted to be at Cherry River.
I’d found who I wanted to be with.
And both were ripped away the day Della died.
Despite my heartaches, Rogue Rascal was a hit and I stayed on for each new season. I spent more and more time on set doing last-minute line changes.
And that was how I met Michael.
Sweet, funny Michael who played a cadaver who’d been murdered by a man-hating prostitute. He had no lines, and the make-up department made him look like a decomposing throttle victim who happened to love cream cheese bagels at lunchtime.
We’d bumped into each other in some cliché meet-cute that another scriptwriter would’ve rolled their eyes at penning. He reached for the same bagel I did. Our fingers touched. Something sparked.
He’d flirted.
I’d laughed.
He’d asked me out.
I couldn’t find a reason to say no.
I’d be lying if I didn’t say our first date had a third wheel in the shadows. My heart clung to Jacob, sending silent messages to wherever he was to come claim me before another did.
But he never came.
And Michael fell for me.
One date turned to two, then three, then four.
And on the sixth one, I had a choice to make.
A choice I’d hoped would always sort itself out.
My virginity.
For so long, I’d clutched to the stupid hope that Jacob would come back before it was too late. He’d grieve for his parents. He’d shut himself off for a while. And then he’d return, not as broken, and ready to embrace a new life…with me.