Aubrey, you are a stupid little fool. A stupid, desperate fool chasing something you know doesn’t exist anymore.
She had to wait ten minutes for another cab. She stretched across the backseat, rubbing her sore muscles, her head resting against the window.
He’s dead and gone, Aubrey. Dead and gone and rotting in the ground somewhere, and just because you don’t know where doesn’t change the fact that he is no longer.
And he’s never coming back.
Dear Josh,
I thought of you today. Of course I did, that’s a stupid way of saying it. I think of you every day, all of the time. I just wish I knew where you were.
I thought of you today when I was walking on the beach. Kevin and Janie have forced me on an out-of-town weekend, to the house in Nags Head. Remember the time we went there, that ridiculously long drive, and the place was boarded up and we had to sleep in the car?
They claim they want to get me away from town, away from the memories, away from the press clamoring after me, but the truth is, they are embarrassed by all the attention. Our friends are embarrassed by me.
I hate it here. It’s wrong to sleep in our room without you. All I can do is walk, escape, get away from the insincere, solicitous smiles. The air is thick and wet, but down by the water there is a touch of a breeze, a whisper, really, and that’s where I go.
There were rocks on the beach. Not shells, nothing crushed underfoot, but a wide expanse of sand dotted with stones. I collected them, one by one, eight in all. One for every month you’ve been gone.
I know you’re out there. Everyone tells me you’re dead. But I know you’re there. I can feel you, as strongly as if you were walking beside me, scattering the stones in my path for me to chase. But when I look back, there is only one set of footprints.
All I can do is hope that one day, you will come back to me.
Always,
Aubrey
CHAPTER 8
Aubrey
Today
The house was dead quiet when she returned, emptier than usual. Winston was asleep in the living room, snoring lightly, paws up in the air. He didn’t even budge when she put his food down. She stood in the kitchen in her bare feet and drank two large glasses of water. She wasn’t hungry, but she forced herself into a frozen dinner all the same, knowing that her run had depleted so many calories that she’d be weak in the morning if she didn’t refuel.
The light on the answering machine was blinking.
She went to the phone and pressed the Message button. Linda’s cheerful voice sprang from the machine.
“Aubrey, honey, if you change your mind about wanting company, I’ll be at Frothy Joe’s at eight. I’d love to see you come out tonight.”
Aubrey deleted the message and glanced at the clock. It was 7:45 p.m. already. She didn’t want to talk about poetry tonight, see Linda’s solicitous smiles. She was dripping wet and so tired she couldn’t think straight.
And yet something drove her to set her fork down, mount the stairs, take a shower, whip a comb through her wickedly curly hair, slip on a cotton dress, and gather her car keys.
The house was just so empty tonight.
She couldn’t face it alone.
? ? ?
Frothy Joe’s was a quaint little coffee shop on 21st Avenue, hugely popular with the Vandy students. The original owner, now deceased, was from Colorado, and had a thing for bears, which took over every corner of the coffee shop. Between the scent of freshly ground coffee beans and the decor—mountain chic, so unlike anything else in Nashville—Aubrey found she could almost imagine she was somewhere else. Anywhere else.
The store was currently owned by Meghan Lassiter, Aubrey’s best friend and confidante, who had happily given Aubrey the part-time gig when she’d applied. Meghan was independently wealthy, and always seemed to have room for a few extra employees.
Meghan’s exact background was a mystery. She’d told so many stories about from whence she came, all with a sly wink and an engaging smile, that no one knew what was real and what was fabricated. Which was exactly what Meghan wanted. She felt it imperative that her life’s story be full of mystery and excitement.
There was one truth to Meghan that Aubrey knew: she kept a well-loved, tattered copy of Daniel Wallace’s Big Fish in her purse. Aubrey wondered which of the crazy characters from Meghan’s life would come parading out at her funeral.