When the Heart Falls

"Trying to make money for mama and papa?"

"They do okay on their own."

"Good. You work for yourself then. Finish book."

"Sure."

After a few more hits, Jenifer and Duke roll around on the grass, making out. "Where the guy, the Cade?" Duke asks, his voice slurred from too much booze and drugs.

"She said he's gone," Jenifer says, laughing. "I don't even know what that means. Did he die? I hope he didn't die. God. This is horrible. He died, and I'm laughing."

My heart tightens. "He didn't die. That's his brother. His brother's dying."

Jenifer's eyes widen. "He has a brother?"

"That sad," Duke says, taking another hit. "I'm sorry."

Jenifer takes the joint from him, inhales, then blows out smoke while she talks. "He's coming back, right?"

Breathe in. Breathe out. "I don't think so."

She coughs, then downs a shot of liquor. "What are you gonna do?"

I remove my shoes. "I'm going to swim in the lake, enjoy nature one last time. And tomorrow, I'll go back to the city, slide into my empty bed, and delete my novel."

"What?" Jenifer tries to sit up too quickly and falls back down. "You can't delete your novel. You're joking, right? You're joking."

"Sure." I stand, strip to my underwear and bra and dive into the lake.



Under the water the world is silent, but its heartbeat is loud, pulsing through the molecules of water. I stay under until I can't hold my breath anymore and then push up, inhaling oxygen as all the sounds of the world penetrate my brain again.

I roll onto my back, floating with my head partially submerged, the silence enveloping me again as I stare at the stars. A dying star streaks across the night sky, but all my wishes have died, too.

The cold hits me then, and I swim to shore and dry off. Duke and Jenifer are cuddling by a fire, kissing and laughing. I say goodnight and climb into my tent.

Sleep should claim me quickly. I haven't had any in two days. My body must be exhausted, but it won't submit to the night, and instead I lay there until I hear the moaning of Duke and Jenifer, who are no longer just dry humping.

The wall around myself crumbles then, and I roll over and let the tears once again claim me.





WINTER DEVEAUX

CHAPTER 28





SPENDING THE NIGHT in nature has done nothing to lighten the grief weighing heavy on my chest with every breath. Grateful that my fluency and grades give me some wiggle room with attending classes, I stay in the dorm when Jenifer leaves, her brows furrowed in concern. I fall asleep, I think, at least for a moment or two, but the sobs shaking my body wake me. Even unconscious, I’m grieving. I check my cell phone again, hoping for a text or call, but it’s silent. Is he home yet? Or still flying?

My laptop is open in front of me as I sit in bed staring at the words on the screen without seeing them. The entire contents of my book are selected, my finger hovering over the delete button. I don’t know how long I sit there, toying with self-destruction, when my cell phone rings.

My heart jumps into my throat, and I check caller ID, praying it’s him. It’s not. I choke back my tears and answer in French. "Bonjour, Monsieur Bellugue."

"Bonjour, Winter. Comment allez-vous?”

How am I? I don’t know. I’m dead. Empty. But I settle on something less macabre and reply in French. "Cold."

"It is a chilly day. But if you still wish to hear my critique of your novel, I'm having lunch at Vincent's right now. You know the place?"

"I know it."

"You'll come?"

"Oui. Au revoir."

I stare once more at my novel and close the file without deleting. Saved by the bell, as they say. Cade left a sweatshirt in our hotel room, and I pull it over my head and inhale his scent. The pain settles in me, and I hold it close.

The air is crisp, clouds heavy and dark in the sky, as I walk to the restaurant. A chill sends goose bumps up my arms that aren't from the cold. I turn, expecting to see someone behind me, but no one is there. Still, the feeling of being watched doesn’t leave me, and I pick up my pace until I reach the warmth of the restaurant that’s so full of memories.

Monsieur Bellugue has a table by the window, and I sit across from him and order hot tea and nibble on the bread that now tastes like Styrofoam.

"So, what'd you think?" A lonely butterfly flutters in my stomach, as I wait for him to reply.

We carry on the conversation in French, which is a perk of talking with Monsieur Bellugue.

"I loved it The romance was fantastique. Especially those steamier parts. Those parts, well, my wife should read those parts. She could learn a thing or—"

"You said you had critiques."

"Oh, oui. Oui. The Lance character needs more development."

I shrug. "He's not that important."

"He's the heroine's best friend."

"But after she falls in love, she forgets about him. The lovers are so enamored with each other that everything else seems trivial."

"I understand," he says. "But Lance has not forgotten them. He has not forgotten her. Would he really disappear?"