know they matter to you, and you matter to me, so I want to know.”
Her laughter erased itself and so did the smile on her face. She turned serious. “You want to know? Even if hurts? Even if you won’t know what to say?”
“Yes. I do.”
She tipped her forehead to her car. “Take me for a ride. I’ll show you.” She handed him the keys, and let him drive.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The grass was spongy under his feet, and the early evening sun cast golden shadows across the headstones.
The oaks and elms rose stately and green, their lush leaves forming canopies. Flowers burst to life everywhere, some wild, many in bouquets laid on the ground. It was an odd juxtaposition—all that verdant life in the midst of those markers of death. But that was what cemeteries were for—for the living to remember the dead. With her hand in his, they neared her father’s grave.
As the simple stone came into view, he saw yellow. So much yellow.
“My grandma was here this week. She brought those,” Shannon said gesturing to the sunflowers along the headstone.
He read the etching. Thomas Darren Paige. Loving father. His throat hitched, and he swallowed it away as he wrapped an arm around her shoulder.
“I bring them here, too,” she continued.
“They’re beautiful,” Brent said softly, as they stopped a few feet from the grave. “It’s a beautiful way to remember him.”
“They’re not only for him,” Shannon said, looking up, meeting his eyes.
“Who are they for?” he asked, but he knew the answer. In a flash, everything made sense. He inhaled sharply, walloped once again by something unexpected.
“I like to think he’s with my dad. Somehow. That my dad is looking out for him. That they keep each other company in the great beyond.”
He swallowed roughly, and spoke softly. “I believe that.”
“I started to bring the flowers when I came back from London. I was struggling and I needed to find a way through all that sadness. I’d been pregnant and utterly confused, and then in mere hours, I became not pregnant and completely empty. I wasn’t just sad. I was hollow, and aching. I felt the loss every day for the first few months. I felt it like it was this hole inside me. I didn’t know what to do,” she said, holding her hands out wide, showing the helplessness she must have felt. “I talked to my grandma about it, and it’s not as if I was trying to compare what I lost to what she lost—she lost a son she’d raised and loved for thirty-six years. I lost a son I never knew. But she told me that remembering the person who was no longer here was what helped her the most to heal,” Shannon said. Huge tears welled up in her green eyes, and he couldn’t help himself. He bent his head to hers and kissed them away.
“And so I did the same,” she said, sharing more of the story. “I thought it would just help me deal with the initial awfulness. That kind of grief upends your daily routine. It makes it hard to get out of bed. This helped though,” she said, and her voice was soft, but steady. He could hear her strength in it. He could sense all her resilience, all her survival. “And soon, the pain lessened. Time did what time is supposed to do. The pain didn’t feel so raw or so new or so fresh anymore. I was able to do my job, and live my life, and not be seized with sadness every second. But I’d still come here when I was in town, and I’d leave more sunflowers, and soon I realized I wasn’t leaving them for the baby anymore.”
“You weren’t?”
She shook her head. “They were for you,” she said, and a new shock reverberated in his system. But it wasn’t the horribleness of last night; it was something else. It was shock mixed with a strange sense of hope. “They reminded me of you and how I felt for you. I was leaving them here as a way to remember that I wasn’t alone. That even though you didn’t know, you were a part of it, too. Sunflowers always reminded me of you.”
“Why?” he said, his throat dry as the desert, choked with emotion.
She didn’t answer with words at first. She answered through touch. She pushed up the sleeve on his right arm, revealing his ink—the black sunburst he’d had done with her in Boston, when she’d