“I knew the moment we met that you’d be a friend for life,” I murmur. “I just didn’t realize that life would be cut so short. I wish I had words eloquent enough to convey how much I’ll miss your bad jokes and constant smiles. I wish you were here to make fun of me one more time. But I know you had to go.” My voice breaks. “I’ll miss you so much, Ian. I hope, wherever you are, you’re at peace now. If there is a heaven up above, I’m certain you’re already in it, making the angels laugh.”
I close my eyes, feeling the first true sunbeams of the day break over the horizon and bask me in warmth. I might not be totally sold on the existence of a higher power or an afterlife… but in my heart, I’d like to believe those rays of light are Ian, shining down on me.
One final farewell.
Beck clears his throat. “Ian. I hope you’re somewhere with plenty of steak, endless margaritas, and zero pain.” His tone turns somber. “You were a better man than I’ll ever be. You brought so much heart to this place. You faced the end with the kind of courage I’ve only ever seen from soldiers on a battlefield. You were a fighter. A warrior, fearless right till the end. It won’t be easy, filling the shoes you’ve left behind.” He pauses. “Of course, if you were here, you’d say the shoe, Beck, singular and we’d all have a good laugh.”
A snort-sob catches in my throat. “You’re right. He totally would say that.”
“He was one of a kind.”
I nod, unable to speak.
“It won’t be the same here without him.”
My eyes move to Beck’s face, still streaked with dirt from digging Ian’s grave. He looks impossibly young in the weak morning light. More boy than man, shaken and sad. I’m stunned to see tears glossing over his eyes.
Beck Underwood, stone pillar of masculinity, unshakable mountain of a man… crying.
I dig my fingernails into my palms, trying to get myself under control, but it’s no use. I’ve always seen Beck as indestructible; watching him begin to unravel is simply too much to bear. My own seams begin to come apart.
“Violet.”
It’s a plea and a promise. A benediction and a burning wish. We move at the same time. I think we both need it desperately — the connection of skin against skin. The heat of his firm chest seeps into me like a drug. After this seemingly unending ordeal, I crave contact like a junkie in need of her fix. It’s the only reminder that I’m still alive, that I haven’t disappeared into thin air never to be seen again, a balloon without a string.
His arms loop behind my shoulders, grounding me unquestionably in reality. I’m crushed so tight to his chest it’s difficult to draw breath, but I don’t mind because that feeling — the one that I might float away — begins to dissipate as soon as my arms wind around his back.
You’re still here.
You matter.
I’ve got you.
I cling to him as he buries his face in my hair. After a moment, I feel the distinct smattering of his tears against the strands near the crown of my head. My own eyes leak onto the bare skin of his chest, turning the dirt and dust clinging there to a muddy paste. I can feel it smearing against my cheeks, dripping down my neck in rivulets, but I don’t care. I’m already filthy after two weeks without a proper bath. In this instant nothing in the world, especially not a bit of dirt, could convince me to shift out of Beck’s embrace.
We stand together on the cliff for a small eternity, until the sun has ascended far past the water’s edge. The tears have stopped, but still we cling. I wonder if he’s as terrified to let go as I am.
What if we never touch again?
What if we can’t ever stop?
Both alternatives shake me to my core.
We both know things are going to change, now that Ian’s gone… whether we want them to or not. There will be no more third party to break the tension with quick quips, no buffer zone between the two opposing hurricanes raging within Beck and me, on an indisputable collision course for a natural disaster.
Change is coming. I can feel it in my bones, sense it in the air. I’m just not sure if it will be for better or worse.
Intertwined, we lend each other strength until I feel my legs begin to tremble. It’s been weeks since I’ve properly slept; longer since I’ve eaten a full meal. Without Ian here, there’s no longer a need to keep up the illusion of composure I’ve been maintaining for so long. My body officially hits its breaking point when my knees buckle completely.
Beck catches me as I fall. Without a word, his arms shift and he scoops me up against his chest. Cradled like a child, I rest my head on his shoulder as he carries me away from the gravesite, eyes on the glorious morning sunshine that stains the clouds with silver linings. The last thought I have before they slip closed is of Ian.
Goodbye, sweet friend. I miss you already.
I think he’s going to carry me back to camp, but he brings me to the hidden pool instead. I’m glad for it — I don’t think I could keep it together if I had to look at the spot where Ian took his last breath. Not yet, anyway. I need a little distance.
Beck seats us by a bend on the soft bank, near the sun-dappled shallows. The water is so clear I can see straight to the bottom. He steers my limbs without resistance, reclining me back against the firm planes of his body. My toes skim the water’s edge.
I feel hollow, heart cleaved from my chest. No vital signs. Scoured clean of everything that’s ever mattered, like the seashells I’ve spent so many hours collecting since we arrived here a month ago.
A month.
Has it only been that long? The tallies I scratch into the tree trunk each day concur with that timeline, but it feels vastly inaccurate. I have aged at least a thousand years since we arrived. By all rights I should be wrinkled and arthritic, an old crone bent at the waist as she walks the beach, barely able to remember the life she lived before.
Back home, they’ll be celebrating Independence Day in less than a week, ringing in the true start of summer with backyard barbecues and screaming bottle rockets. Mom will be especially devastated I’m not with her. I turn eighteen on July 4th and, before this trip, we’d always planned to spend the day riding around in her Jeep Wrangler with the doors off and that Jason Mraz song blasting from the stereo.
'Cause you were born on the Fourth of July, freedom ring.
We’d eat lunch by the lake, then Mom would take pictures to record the moment as I legally purchased my first scratch ticket. After winning MegaMillions, in accordance with tradition, she’d recite the story of my birth… and the way I got my name.
I held you in my arms at the hospital, watching the fireworks explode in the distance, and as they lit off a whole series of purple ones, your little hand curled around my finger for the first time. I looked over at your father and he looked straight back at me and we just knew.
Violet.
Our little firecracker, right from the start.
My eyes press closed, as if to hold onto the memory a little tighter, until it’s burned into my brain. Her face is still clear in my mind. How long until it fades? How long until I can no longer recall the sound of her voice or the cadence of her laugh?