Paris Is Always a Good Idea - Jenn McKinlay Page 0,132

of your mother that you can hold on to, and you can’t move forward, because you’re afraid if you let it go, you’ll lose her forever.”

It was true. I knew it, but I shook my head in protest. He ignored me.

“I’m telling you right here, right now, that you won’t ever lose her,” he said. “You can move forward and be the woman on the other side of loss. You can be her with me, because I understand it. I know this is true, because I was the same with Jess. You have to let the grief go.”

“I can’t,” I cried. “I don’t want to.”

“Yes, you do. You’re brave enough. I know you are,” he whispered. He smoothed the hair back from my face. “Trust me that it will be all right. I’ll hold you through it. I’ll keep you safe, I promise. Be with me, Chelsea. Tonight. Here and now, in this moment, let the past go and choose me.”

It felt as if I were ripping a part of myself out, root and stem. On a torrent of tears and sobs that shook my shoulders and left me feeling weak, I reached deep inside of myself and felt the pain, the sadness, the anger, and the grief, all the emotions that I’d been hanging on to for so long, as if they would keep my mother with me. Jason was right: they didn’t. But it still felt like a fresh loss.

With a moan of distress, I let it all go. I imagined my grief and pain soaring out of me up into the dark night sky to find a new home in the stars above. I expected to feel hollow, bereft, adrift without the anchor of sadness I’d been chained to for so long. Instead . . . I felt free.

With a gut-wrenching sob, I threw my arms around Jason’s neck and pressed my face into his chest. Tears were running down my face, which was undoubtedly puffy and blotchy. I pulled back and used the skirt of my dress to wipe my face clean. My breath was coming in great gulps, as if I’d been held under water almost to the point of drowning and had just broken the surface and could breathe again.

Jason pulled me back into the circle of his arms. He rested his cheek on the top of my head and whispered words of comfort while he ran his hands up and down my back in a gesture meant to soothe. It didn’t.

I slid my hands up the front of his warm chest. I pressed my palms against the nape of his neck and pulled him close so that I could press my lips against his. I kissed him, long and deep, with everything that I felt.

The kiss tasted of tears and loss but also of hope and joy. He clutched me to him, breathing me in and holding me with hands that shook. When he scooped me up into his arms, I didn’t let go and I didn’t stop kissing him, but let him carry me through the moonlight-soaked vineyard as if I was the most precious thing in the world to him.

The part of me that had been hollowed out by loss began to fill with lightness and love. I felt healed. And it wasn’t because I’d found my old self but rather because I’d finally accepted myself for exactly who I was. Jason’s love, his warmth, and his understanding had given me the courage to heal myself. When he set me on my feet outside the door to his guesthouse, he hugged me close and whispered in my ear, “Stay with me.”

Unable to find the words, I nodded. Jason opened the door and led me inside. He didn’t bother with the lights, but closed the door and pulled me close. He kissed me with one hand tangled in my hair, holding me still, while the other rested on my hip, pulling me close. He kissed me softly, slowly, sliding his lips along mine until he found the sweet spot where we fit perfectly. Then he deepened the kiss.

I parted my lips, inviting him in, swirling my tongue around his the way I knew he liked. He tasted faintly of wine. I leaned up against him. I couldn’t get enough. I felt as if I were on fire and he was the only thing that could contain the heat.

I pulled at his shirt, tossing it aside, exposing his skin to my fingers. I