The joke was for her and it helps a little. A chuckle hums from her chest and fades a second later, the moment settling against the quiet. It happens in slow motion, the gradual shift forward. The small shuffle of her feet and dip of her head before her temple lands in the hollow between my collarbones like she just needs a safe place to breathe for a minute.
I envelop her in my arms without a second thought. Her hands curl into fists against my sternum, resting under her chin. I squeeze her into the cradle of my upper body, my shoulders forming a shield around her. My palm runs a languid path up and down her spine.
“Hope is an anchor for the soul, right?” she whispers, voice fractured. My heart soars—Nana’s words. Then she adds, “I remember.”
All I can do is hold her tighter to combat the mess of feelings that make it hard to speak. There are no words.
Eventually, some of the tension she’s holding eases. The slight tug of her nails over the fabric of my shirt as if she needs to grab it—to find a permanent tether to this spot, this moment in time when her mom’s alive and I’m here—has me begging God to let this be it. Letherbe it. Make it so I don’t have to leave.
“Rowan?”
I hum, hand still running over her back.
“Are you single?”
A ridiculous laugh tumbles out of me and I pinch her waist. She doesn’t retreat, only burrows in deeper. “Why? You lookin’?”
She scoffs. “Me? You wish.”
The quiet pulls until I reply. “Yeah, I’m single.”
“Okay, just making sure.” Her arms slide around my waist.
“Making sure I’m not a cheater?”
“Nah, you’re too honorable for that. Just needed to know if I was gonna have to cut a bitch.”
We sink into soft laughter again, both of us in simultaneous recognitionanddenial of one painfully unspoken truth—the elephant in the room. This can only be whatever it is for a couple more weeks. Yet I can’t find it in me to walk away.
24
hope in needlepoint
Hannah - five years ago
It’shot chocolate on steroids. The mound of whipped cream on top is nearly as big as the cup itself. Chocolate shavings. Cinnamon stick poking out the side. It’s so pretty I’m not sure I should drink it.
“Oh, so when you said ‘hot chocolate’ you meant the fancy kind,” I say.
“I take hot chocolate very seriously, Hannah.”
“Obviously,” I tease, clinking our mugs together. He lowers into the rocking chair next to mine.
The dock sits a short walk from the back deck of the cabin and down a small flight of stairs. Serene water so calm it reflects the moon in a vivid shimmer across the surface expands under a blanket of stars. Pines and spruces hug the edge of the water while silhouetted mountains linger in the distance, piercing the black sky above. Street noise and light pollution don’t exist here. Only the sound of rustling trees and the night song of crickets fills the stillness.
I tuck one leg up against the arm rest and use my other foot to set the rocker in motion, taking my first sip. Warm liquid hits my taste buds in an explosion of rich flavors and childhood nostalgia.
My hum of pleasure is involuntary. I wave a mystifiedhand around the mug then toward him in aone of these is not like the othergesture. “How in the world didthishappen?”
His snicker echoes off the rim of his cup. “I hate coffee.”
That’s all he says. “And?”
He swipes a dot of whipped cream off my nose without a word. A touch so casual and unassuming it disorients me. I pull the sleeves of his hoodie down over my wrists to busy my hands.
“And,” he goes on. “Nana taught me.”
I give him a lazy smile. “Will you tell me about her?”