Wander and Roam (Wander #1) (14 page)

“Shh.” Sage embraces me, and I yearn so badly for comfort, I accept his warm, strong hug. “You couldn’t have known.”

“He was on the transplant list.” I sniffle. “When they found a match, we all had so much hope.”

“What happened?” Sage holds me even tighter.

“After a few months, his body rejected the kidneys then shut down, one part at a time. Within the week, he…”

The tears return. Tears of guilt for not being there that first year of college, tears of grief for remembering those beautiful, awful times, and tears of
relief.
I’m finally able to talk about Robbie.

Maybe, if I’m ready to talk about our relationship, I’m also ready to say my goodbyes.

I grab my backpack, sling it back over my left shoulder, and step onto the trail. Not heading forward, but backward. Back to Waverly Cemetery, back to the tombstones that haunt me, back to what I’ve spent the past six months running from.

“Where are you going?” Sage calls as I force myself to take one cautious footstep after another.

“Wait here. I need to be alone for a while.” Each step takes me closer to what I dread, what I’ve hidden from, what I need to do.

Finally, the metal gates appear. I stare at the endless rows of graves. A single flower rests in a weighted vase upon a nearby stone. Its petals flutter in the salty breeze.

I look for the two interlocking hearts, the familiar name etched in stone. Earlier, my flight through the cemetery had been so frantic that retracing my steps is hard. But after forty-five minutes of searching—looking at each name, reading each date, honoring each memory—I find the heart-carved stone.

I open my backpack, pull out my notebook, and free my pen from the wire spiral.
How can I possibly begin? How do I say goodbye?
While I’ll never be fully ready, this farewell needs to happen. I cannot live my entire life as a shell. Robbie would want me to have closure.

I hold pen to paper, remember our love, our time together, us, and write.

Dear Robbie,

You’ll never imagine how I spent the day, crying in an Australian cemetery over someone else’s grave. Those two interlocking hearts were my undoing. Did I ever tell you how your mother let me choose the symbol to be etched onto your gravestone? I think she felt it would bring me closure. I agonized over my choice, before settling on the two hearts. Just like we used to draw in each other’s notebooks. Just like we carved in that tree in the Cuyahoga Metropark.

My mother said it was a sign for an old married couple who planned on being buried together, but I didn’t care. I wanted you to feel my love for eternity.

But I cannot hold onto this love forever. I’m sinking, Robbie. The grief, the loss—of you, of us—carries me down. I love you, I will always love you, but I remember your last words, “Live, for me.”

You will always be my first love. While I’ll never forget your memory, it’s time for me to start living again. You would want that. The old, laughing, goofy Abby, rather than this shell of an Abby that I’ve become. Goodbye, Robbie Williams.

XXXOOO

Abby

As tears splatter the paper, I fold it then place it in one of the small purple envelopes. I begin to stick it into my backpack with the dozens of other letters that crowd my front pocket but look back at the tombstone. After a long pause, I place the envelope into a crevice along the top of the marble. Slowly, I insert the other envelopes wherever they fit, until purple lines the carving.

Hopefully, the other Robert,
1848-1898,
will not mind.

I make my way back to the trail. Tears continue to trickle when I finally find Sage. “Ready to finish our hike?”

“Are you okay?” He wipes a droplet from my cheek.

What does “okay” even mean?

Holding onto Robbie for so long has been destructive. I haven’t just lost my beloved; instead, I’ve screwed up my schooling, ruined my friendships, and angered my family. By refusing to let go, I nearly lost myself.

My aboveground tomb looked different from Robbie’s, but the end result was pretty much the same. If I’m ever going to be
okay
, I need to move on.

We continue the last stretch to Coogee in silence. The sun has just begun to sink, and pinks and oranges illuminate the ocean. The smell of the ocean scents the air as I wipe the last salt-tinged tears from my face.

When the trail ends, we find the bus stop and ride silently back to the ferry landing. The last ferry moves through purple-hued skies and lavender waters. Finally, we reach our campsite. Sage builds a fire. As its warm glow lights up the night, I open up my backpack then pull out the hundreds of unused envelopes that remain. One by one, I fling the purple rectangles into the blaze. Each causes the fire to surge.

Sage sits right next to me, despite the length of the log. “Are you sure?”

“Robbie gave me the envelopes when I left for college.” I throw another one into the fire. “So that each time he saw a purple envelope, he would know immediately that it was ‘precious.’”

“You wrote to him the old-fashioned way?”

“Every day.” I remember my college ritual, sitting in my dorm with pen, paper, and purple envelope. “Sometimes, on hard days, more than once.”

“Why—?”

“He was worth the effort. I mean, we talked on the phone, texted, and video chatted, too, but taking the time to write showed how much I cared.” The blaze intensifies as another envelope hits the flames.

“You never stopped writing.”

“The ritual—writing to Robbie, folding my letter, sealing the purple envelope—brought me comfort. Sometimes, it was the only thing that did.” I hold the last envelope in my hands.
Goodbye, Robbie
. I prepare to throw it.

“Don’t!” Sage grabs it. “Sorry, I have an idea for the last one. Something we can do back at the farm.”

“I just want to forget. I’ve spent too much time grieving.” I’ve written my daily letters, month after month, as if Robbie was on a long trip instead of buried in the ground. I’ve avoided cemeteries and all talk of death, so I could pretend he wasn’t really gone. I cannot bear any more sadness.

If I don’t find a way to move on,
I’m
not going to make it.

He squeezes my hand. “Today’s been overwhelming. Why don’t you sleep on it?”

The inky blackness surrounds us, with only small licks of fire lighting our campsite. Today
has
been overwhelming. Between our romantic morning swim, the exhausting hike, and my cemetery meltdown, I’ve been riding an emotional rollercoaster. I’m never going to fall asleep.

And if I do, I’m terrified that memories of Robbie will haunt my dreams.

Sage’s warm leg presses against me. His arm, all muscles and tone, rubs against the softness of mine. His scent—salt-kissed sunshine and ocean water—surrounds me. I can’t help but remember the highs of that morning. Only ten hours earlier, I had been so happy. I want, no,
need
, to replicate those moments. I need to forget.

“Abby?” Sage watches me carefully.

“Make me forget, Sage.” I lay my head against his shoulder.

Sage leans down, zips the envelope into his backpack’s pocket, then wraps his arm around me. “I’m not sure this is the best time.”

“Please!” I hold his face close, rest my forehead upon his, and kiss the bridge of his nose. “Remember my words earlier? I meant them.”

Sage inhales suddenly. When I lean back, his eyes darken. He stares at me with desire, longing, and… something else. Hesitation?

“You’re worried it’s too soon.” I kiss his chin, his cheeks, and as he closes his eyes, each eyelid. “But you won’t be taking advantage of me.”

He sighs as I nip at his lower lip.

“You’d be helping me.” I brush my lips against his. “I want to move on.”

He grabs my shoulders and presses me to him. He runs his hands down each arm then up again. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” I whisper into his ear before nibbling on his lobe.

Sage’s resolve melts with my teases. Breaking away, he rests his forehead against mine. “If you change your mind, just let me know.”

I nod my understanding, but I’ve already decided. I need Sage’s closeness, comfort, and caring. I need to be whole again, rather than this withered up version of myself.

Sage brushes his lips against the soft skin of my eyelids. His lips trace the trails of dried tears from my eyes to my cheeks then continue lower until they reach my neck. The whisper-soft brushes of his lips tease me until I press myself even closer to him. We merge together as best we can on the rough, bark-covered log.

“Can we move into the tent?” I stand, pull Sage up, and wait as he fiddles with the zipper. He gestures for me to crawl inside then enters after me.

“Oops, wait.” He exits then throws a bucket of dirt onto the flames. The fire flickers out, and darkness surrounds me. Moments later, Sage reenters, zips up the tent, then turns to me. In the moments he was gone, my brazenness has faded into shyness. I hug him and savor the warmth of holding another so close.
It has been so long.

He pulls me on his lap then resumes his slow exploration. I place my hands upon his chest. Through the thin fabric of his T-shirt, his heart thumps. Normally at first, but as my thumb circles his heart, faster and faster.

My heart speeds as well.

In the black of the night, in the isolation of our campsite, in the comfort of Sage’s arms, I lose myself to him. Everything fades away but the two of us. Nobody else and nothing else matters. The peace that brings is nothing less than ecstasy.

I
WAKE
, safe in Sage’s arms, as the sun warms the tent with its first rays. The temptation to remain snuggled close overpowers me. Our little tent shuts out the world, its thin canvas walls a barrier against memories, worries, real life.

Sage opens his eyes, a smile already forming on his face. “Morning.”

The glow of sunlight streams through the leaf-green tent walls, painting Sage in nature’s colors. I nestle closer and tuck my head against his shoulder. “I don’t want to leave.”

“Me either.” He wraps both arms around me, pulling me closer.

Leaning my head back, I kiss the underside of his chin. His prickly, unshaven hairs tickle my lips. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Sage holds me quietly.

“Helping me move on.” I trail my fingers down his chest. “I don’t know how much longer I could have survived.”

“What do you mean?” His body stiffens.

“Losing someone I loved ripped a part of…
me
out. I spent six months feeling like I was drowning.”

“Drowning?” His voice quiets.

“In my grief. For months, I never saw the surface—until, this weekend.” I weave my fingers between his and gently raise them to my lips. “You gave me hope.”

Sage doesn’t say a word. I brush my lips against his knuckles, but he abruptly moves his hand out of my reach. “Susan will be waiting,” he says. He jumps up, grabs his backpack, and abruptly exits. I’m left to wonder about what happened.
Disappointment over leaving or the awkwardness of the morning after?
I can’t help but hope it’s the first.

I slowly pull fresh clothes on, brush my hair for an extra-long time, and linger while tying my shoes. Last night, this tent served as a refuge from my grief and sadness.
What if it all comes rushing back as soon as I set foot outside?

“Abby,” Sage calls. “We need to hurry. The next water taxi leaves in a half-hour.”

When I unzip the tent, he’s all business. He has torn the camp down, with the exception of the tent I’m sitting in; the gear’s carefully packed and piled; and the tent bag waits. I head to the tree line to brush my teeth, using my water bottle to wet the travel-sized toothbrush and rinse. By the time I finish, the tent’s completely disassembled and packed.

Sage attaches it to the bottom of his enormous backpack. “Ready?”

No
. I want to shake my head, shout my protests, and dig my heels into our little sanctuary. This weekend has been transforming. For months and months, I carried the weight of Robbie with me everywhere I went. Until now.