She let it go at that and went on to ask me the usual questions about how things were going. Instead of answering, I dug the photocopied obituary out of my backpack and gave it to her. At first, I felt silly for complaining about a few nasty notes when the things I did to earn them were so much worse. But now I can acknowledge the difference: I never meant to hurt anyone, but whoever left those notes clearly meant to hurt me.
“Someone keeps putting things like this in my locker,” I told Mrs. Dover. “I don’t know who they are, but I want them to stop.”
When she saw what was on the sheet, her pretty face turned stony. “If you ever find out who’s doing it,” she said, “please let me know.”
I promised her I would, even though I knew the culprit would probably remain a mystery. He or she is a coward, hiding behind their anonymity like a troll on the internet.
The good news is, there hasn’t been any passive-aggressive locker mail since. And if I ever do get more, I won’t hang on to them. My green notebook is being used to store something else now—the police academy brochures. Maybe someday soon, I’ll take them home with me.
“Dara,” Ethan says, jolting me back to the present. “You okay?”
I nod and pass him the flowers. “You do it.”
He crouches down and rests the tulips against the grave, right under the etched words Forever in our hearts. Before he straightens up again, he eases one flower from the bunch and closes his fingers around the stem. I don’t ask him why. Maybe he keeps one every time.
“Do you . . . feel her here?” I ask him.
“Not really. I feel her more at home. Especially when I’m alone in my room, playing guitar. I’m not sure why.”
I press my hand to the top of the stone, feeling vaguely relieved. I don’t feel her here either. Like Ethan, I mostly sense her presence around the house—his and mine. It’s where most of my memories with her took place.
Back in the car, Ethan puts the single purple tulip on the dash and pulls back onto the street. I assume he’s taking me home, so I’m confused when he goes in the opposite direction.
“Ethan, where are we—?”
He makes another turn and it suddenly hits me what he’s doing. Where he’s taking us. And my entire body freezes.
The last time I was here, back in September when my father took this way by accident, it was raining and I was so upset I barely even registered my surroundings. But today, it’s sunny and clear, and Fulham Road looks as peaceful and picturesque as ever. Exactly like it did the day Aubrey was killed.
The calmness I felt at the graveyard has abandoned me completely. My pulse quickens and my breathing shallows, a precursor to the flashbacks that always follow close behind. Suddenly, I feel Ethan’s hand on my shoulder, and I realize the car has stopped moving and we’re parked on the side of the road, mere feet from where Aubrey’s life was crushed out of her.
“You can do this.” Ethan’s face is inches from mine, all I can see. “You can. I’m right here with you. I love you.”
I focus on him, on the words he just said. Inhale. Exhale.
“I come here too, you know,” he says. “Every month, after leaving the cemetery, I come here. I feel like I owe her that, to stand in the last place she was alive. It’s hard, but I do it. And if I can do it, so can you.”
My heart is still racing, and the memories are still looming, but I keep my eyes anchored to Ethan’s and breathe through it. This time, I’ll try not to let them consume me. This time, I’ll try digging deep, past the thick, murky layers of guilt and hate and pain, to the fierce-and-fearless me who possibly still exists down there somewhere, waiting to be freed.
For Ethan, but mostly for myself, I’ll try.
“Okay,” I tell him.
He drops a kiss on my forehead and gets out of the car, grabbing the lone tulip as he goes. I take one more deep breath and get out too, nausea swirling in my stomach. But I breathe through that too and join Ethan on the sidewalk. We walk for a minute, passing neat houses and winter-worn lawns, until he comes to a stop near a spindly tree poking out of the strip of grass between the sidewalk and curb.
“No,” I say, tugging him forward several steps. “Right here.”
We stand together on the sidewalk for a while, looking out at the road. The occasional car passes, but no one seems to notice us. To them, and to the rest of the street, it’s just another ordinary day.
“You do it,” Ethan says, holding out the tulip.
I take it and step closer the curb, my shoes sinking into the new spring grass, and look down at the clean, unblemished pavement. These are the things I see now:
Rows of shortbread cookies, cooling on the counter.
A violin bow, cutting through the air.
A pair of dark brown eyes, watching me with love.
I lift the tulip to my nose, inhaling its subtle fragrance until it’s all I can smell. Then I hold it over the empty road, open up my fingers, and let go.