for the world happening around us.
I was a lonely church mouse, wandering his cavernous cathedral, caring for my father when he’d had too much to drink or simply fallen asleep in his chair clutching his gold, then reading myself to sleep.
The day after his lawyer read the will, leaving all of it to me, I got to work. I sold the mansion and almost everything in it. I had a few treasured items he’d allowed me to play with as a child. The rest was gone, and I had enough money to buy the island.
Turning the car into the cemetery, I follow the path slowly past the historic monuments. A life-sized statue of an angel covered in a green patina sits between two headstones, and I know I’m on the right track.
Drake had no family, but I found a deed to a plot in this esteemed burial site as I was going through his things. I took his urn and had a marble headstone fashioned for it.
He didn’t leave an epitaph, so I installed a black granite obelisk with his name and dates engraved on it. When I see it, I park the rental car and step out, walking slowly to the quiet stretch of bright green grass.
The landscape is perfectly manicured, and seagulls cry in the distance. I stop at the place where I planted his remains and read the marker, How terrible it is to love something death cannot touch.
It seemed like an appropriate epitaph. In life, he clung to things he could never take with him, and ultimately, he died the way he lived.
Alone.
Like me.
Standing in front of the black stone, I think about what drove me here. Up until this point, I told myself I wasn’t like this man. I did engage in human contact. I had carefully selected friends, I held a job, and when the need arose, I would have a woman in my bed.
When I kissed Joselyn’s lips and gazed into her eyes that morning, I had a startling realization—I wanted to be the man she believed me to be.
With that realization, the loneliness of my childhood, the self-preservation instinct that kept me safe from the crushing pain of my mother’s rejection, my father’s dysfunction, and Drake’s narcissism, yawned wide like a black hole. I didn’t know how to be that man.
In my arrogance, I convinced myself I could accomplish anything, but lying in that bed, I realized my carefully constructed rules were a façade covering the truth. I don’t know how to touch, to care like a normal human.
“Why couldn’t you have given me that?” My voice is quiet, and I don’t really expect an answer.
I don’t expect closure here in this quiet field.
I remember a little boy standing at the entrance of a massive, mahogany-lined office so hopeful. I remember Drake looking up at me with derision, asking if I wanted to play. I remember being ashamed to say yes, like wanting his attention was a weakness.
Now my stomach burns with anger. It wasn’t wrong to need someone. I had lost everything.
If only I’d had a sibling or even one extended family member. I had nothing but that shriveled reptile of a human whose heart had dried up long ago.
Our interactions were reserved for formal walks through his mansion, while he pointed out his possessions and made special note of their value. He wanted to be sure his massive collection lived on after him.
Then he died, and I was free.
Only, the joke was on me.
I’m not free.
“You taught me to be cold like you, and I was a star pupil.”
Reading the epitaph again, I realize I wrote the words for me, for when I came here again as I knew I would one day.
The real lesson I learned from this man is love must be shared with something that can be lost.
Giving it to possessions only diminishes its value. Love becomes priceless when you have to earn the right to keep it.
True love takes risk. It takes vulnerability.
Only then have you found something irreplaceable.
* * *
“He does such a good job on repairs.” Heather stands on the other side of her mahogany desk, moving the heavy ring back and forth on the black velvet mat. “You can’t even tell a stone was replaced.”
“It’s an unusual piece. I can’t say I would’ve picked it out myself.” Lifting the ring, I inspect the baguettes lining the sides for any sign of looseness.
“True. It’s not the most romantic ring I’ve ever seen.” Heather slides