of his glass heart. “You have so much love to give, and you need to release it. Your life was meant to be spent on loving what you've been given, not on mourning what was taken away. Because he's not gone. He's right there. He always is.”
The grieving father wouldn't face me. He wouldn't show me his eyes, full of pain and sorrow, but I could feel the reluctant lifting of his soul. And I could see the smile on his little boy, knowing I'd gotten through to his daddy, and that they were going to be fine. I let myself revel in that for just a moment, before moving on to the next.
I realized, in that brief, stolen moment, that this is what I've always been meant to do. Helping people by giving loved ones the gift of closure. There was so much satisfaction in finally listening and letting it happen without resistance, and I wished it hadn't taken so much time and pain to see it. But maybe that's how it had to happen, I considered. Maybe, in order to truly fall in love with our callings, we first have to explore and resist. Maybe we need to feel the pain of denial, to know how good it feels to give in and let it flow.
And, I realized, this was the greatest high of all.
***
“How do you feel?” Tracey asked in the car after the show.
I considered the question with a smile, staring out the window at the streams of passing streetlights and power lines. “I feel good,” I said. “Like, really good.”
She grinned from behind the wheel of her Mercedes. “I told you.”
After just fifteen minutes of willingly receiving messages and passing them on, I was exhausted and ready to crash, but there was also a buzzing beneath my skin that couldn't compete with anything I'd ever felt before. Then, I was elated by the realization that the static had never been so quiet, or so calm, and I knew I'd need to do it again.
One time and I was already addicted.
“You hungry?” Tracey glanced at me from her side of the car.
I really needed sleep but my stomach growled in protest. “I'm starving.”
“Same.”
We drove aimlessly, looking out the windows at the passing restaurants, waiting for something to jump out and grab our attention. But burgers weren't appealing at the moment and I'd just had Chinese the night before. It wasn't until we drove by a dimly lit Italian restaurant called Vincenzo’s that Tracey's face lit up with interest.
“I could really go for some pizza,” she said, and although it reminded me too much of the man I used to know, the man I was still legally bound to, I agreed. It'd been so long since I last ate pizza, and after an exhausting night, I craved the comfort of hot dough and melted cheese.
Tracey pulled into the parking lot and we went inside, both of us weary with smiling faces and sagging shoulders. My legs felt heavy and weak, like I’d just run a marathon, but I felt so good and satisfied, that I couldn’t complain. It was late and there weren’t many stragglers left in the restaurant, but Tracey still found us a far table in a secluded corner.
“Less distractions,” she said with a wink, leaving her bag on the bench seat. “What do you feel like eating?”
“Oh, um … I don’t know. I’ll find a menu—”
“I’ll get it. You gotta be so worn out, especially when you’re not used to it. Sit. I’ll be right back.”
She left me at the booth, browsing through my phone and enjoying the whisper of music playing through the sound system. I sank further into the cushy seat, too aware of how tired I really was, and as hungry as I might have been, I still couldn’t wait to collapse onto my bed.
Lord Huron’s “Louisa” began to play, barely detectable to unfamiliar ears, but I’d know that song anywhere. My vision clouded in the memory of dancing with Vinnie on a dark street in New York City, the night when he had first kissed me, and I’d first kissed him. I thought about all of the promises time had broken since then, and I spent the minutes of the song wondering where we went wrong. We had been so good together, hadn’t we? He, the broken bad boy, and I, the innocent girl destined to put him back together. But tropes are meant for predictable movies and cheesy romance