Taunting Callum (Big Sky Royal 3)

When we got pregnant at sixteen, he didn’t leave me. He didn’t bail. He stuck right by me. Despite being painfully young and completely out of our element, we welcomed Emma into the world and did the best we could.

He worked two jobs. And with a ton of hard work and grit, we beat the odds. We had a loving marriage, a healthy, happy child, and a fantastic life.

I kiss one of the flowers, set the wreath on the water, and give it a push and watch as it travels over the calm surface.

“Rest easy, Greg,” I whisper and then look down at the second wreath.

This one is still a sucker punch to the gut.

My perfect baby girl was the light of my life. Her little laugh could make the sunshine seem dim. She had my red hair and her dad’s love of nature. The dirtier she got, the better. I fought a never-ending battle trying to keep her clean.

When Greg wanted to go camping one last time that summer, and I had to work, Emma was thrilled at the idea of spending two whole days with her daddy in the woods. I stayed back, working the shifts at the restaurant that I couldn’t get out of. But secretly, I wasn’t upset. Camping wasn’t really my thing.

It was theirs.

I brush my fingers over the sunflowers and sniff as tears fill my eyes. These flowers remind me of Emma, her bright smile and happy personality.

She was only seven when she was taken away from me.

She’d be a teenager this year.

I kiss the sunflower lightly. “Sweet dreams, baby girl.”

And then I push the wreath onto the water and watch it glide out to sit next to Greg’s, as if the energies of the universe pull them together.

They always were two peas in a pod.

I sit for a while on the shoreline and watch the flowers floating on the water until they drift out of sight.

And then I sit for a little longer.

Today is the one day every year that I let myself be sad, remember, and cry.

I hear a car door slam behind me. That’s my cue to leave.

I stand and walk back to my vehicle, but rather than go immediately home, I drive downtown and park in front of Asana Yoga Studio.

I need to breathe and stretch and re-center myself.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t be here,” the studio owner says as I walk inside.

“I changed my mind,” I tell Fallon with a shrug. “I didn’t bring the right clothes, but I don’t care. Can I borrow a mat?”

“You can borrow anything you want,” she says and then lays her hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay, friend?”

“I will be.” I offer her a brave smile, and then I’m rescued as other clients walk in for class. I don’t want to answer any more questions.

I roll out a mat. Before long, Fallon is taking us through meditation, breathing, and guiding our poses.

By the time the hour is up, I feel much calmer. More at peace.

Well, as peaceful as I can be on this day, anyway.

And as I leave the studio and take a deep breath of fresh air, I know that coming here today was the right choice. If not, I’d just be at home, moping. And that’s not healthy.

I can’t go into work for the rest of the day. I promised to take the day off. I’d just be distracted anyway.

So, I head for my little house at the edge of town. I love the view of the mountains from my back deck. Honestly, the entire house suits me.

It’s a little quirky. Sometimes irritable. Mostly endearing.

I pull into the driveway and feel my eyebrows climb at the sight of my two best friends, Monica and Natasha, sitting on my front porch.

“There you are,” Monica says as I walk toward them. “I thought you’d be home an hour ago.”

“I decided to go to yoga,” I reply and eye the bags they’re holding. “What’s up?”

“Well, we know what today is,” Natasha says as she pushes her dark hair behind her ear. These two are the only ones in Cunningham Falls who know. “And we decided that you’re not going to spend it by yourself.”

“You decided?”

“Yep. Don’t try to give us attitude, either,” Monica adds. “You’re stuck with us.”

“Unlock the door,” Natasha instructs me, pointing to the keyholes.

“Bossy, aren’t you?” I climb the steps and unlock the deadbolt, then step inside and lead them both through the living space to the kitchen, where I open the fridge and reach for a pitcher of filtered water. “Want some?”

“We have better beverages than that,” Monica says. “Natasha’s making her famous ‘ritas.”

I check the time. “It’s not even eleven in the morning.”

“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” Natasha says with a shrug and starts unpacking tequila, limes, and salt from one of the bags. “Look, when it’s the anniversary of your husband’s and daughter’s deaths, you get a pass on what time of day is socially acceptable to day drink.”