Sighing, I turned to her. "It's just coffee, Grandma, I'll be fine. And I have to get used to living in the real world again."
"Okay, Lily," she said again. "You're right. Of course you are. I guess I'll get going then, too." I pretended I didn't notice she was clasping her hands as if she was wringing out a rag.
"Oh, Lily," she said, following me as I pulled on my sweater. I thought she was going to try to stop me. "I forgot to tell you. My friend, Cora, from the tennis club, is hosting a charity event in Marin for those Guatemalan kids she's always talking about, and she wants you to attend. I told her it'd be a wonderful way for you to get out. I thought you'd probably love that. It's on your birthday—your twenty-first. We could celebrate there."
I hesitated. "A charity event for Guatemalan kids?" I would love that. And it was my grandmother's way of apologizing to me. I offered her a small smile. "That sounds wonderful."
"We can look at dresses online later. Or I could call the personal shopper from Bloomingdales. I'm sure they'd bring some samples here for you to try on."
I grimaced. How embarrassing for a stranger to bring dresses to me here. "Or I could go there," I said. My grandmother nodded, but her smile faltered as if me going to a small coffee shop was tolerable but a big department store crossed the line.
I kissed her cheek, put on my shoes, and left, walking quickly through the grounds and smiling at George as I exited the front gate. "Be careful, Lily," he called as he always did.
"I will, George."
It was a foggy, drizzly morning and I couldn't help but recall that day in the forest under the branches of a tree. My heart clenched. Ryan. Sometimes it was still difficult for me to refer to him by that name, even in my mind. I'd met him as Holden. I'd fallen in love with him as Holden. But Shakespeare had been right because what was there in a name? Holden, Ryan . . . I loved the man.
I loved the man who was intense and quiet, gentle and shy, smart and funny. I loved the man who’d looked at me like he wasn't sure how I'd come to be his and was counting his lucky stars. I closed my eyes against the tears. I'd never be his again, and yet I felt like he'd always be mine. Did he wonder why I'd left? I knew he probably didn't understand, and that was my biggest regret. Maybe I should have left a note . . . something. But my grandmother had agreed to help him in exchange for us leaving that night. She'd agreed to help him as long as I promised I wouldn't have any more contact with him. And once I'd told her about why he was there . . .
And I'd known he needed to get better. I'd known that he needed to go back to his life and find a way to reclaim it. I just hadn't anticipated it hurting so much when he did, and I wasn't a part of it, nor could I ever be.
The coffee shop was warm and bustling with activity. I ordered a latté and found a table in the corner. At least I had something to look forward to with the charity event. My grandmother would be comfortable with me attending because it was across the bridge in Marin, where she was staying at a rental home.
I pulled out my phone and quickly googled the 49ers, looking for any recent pictures of Ryan. I knew I should stop. It only brought me pain to see photographs of him. But it also brought me pride and happiness to see him doing well. There were some recent photos from a bar on one of the tabloid pages. I caught a glimpse of Ryan in the background of one of the shots, sitting at a table, looking off to the side. He was smiling. I used my index finger to trace the tiny outline of his face on the phone screen. I thought back to the moment I'd realized he was suffering from some sort of mental disorder.
The moment my heart had dropped into my feet and I'd felt like I might sink to the floor right in front of him. The picture of the man on the cover of the magazine, a stranger I didn't know, but labeled "Holden Scott." I hadn't understood exactly, but I'd known he wasn't lying to me by the look on his face. He believed himself to be Holden Scott. He didn't know who he was. And suddenly his confusion—his sadness—had made some sort of sense. And what was I to do? I had already fallen in love with him. I still loved him. "Boy Scout," I murmured, wondering if the smile on his face in the photograph was real, wondering if he was truly happy.
Wondering if he still thought about me.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Ryan