Page 95 of Love Always

“I know.” I think of Rose.

“I’m sorry—” she starts …

“I’m sorry too.”

I held her as she wept. She kept one hand pressed to where my leg ended, as if to bless it.

΅

Last weekend, I helped Bryce shoot more insulation into the cabin on Rock Island and I have to admit, I was a little jealous. He and Chloe have a five-minute walking commute to work down a narrow trail and across the causeway. The place is adorable. He bought it for her, and she’s paying him back with money she and all the Russos received from selling Christmas trees off a family lot. The sale went through just after Thanksgiving and all five of them came into small but much appreciated nest eggs. Although I was jealous of their space on Rock Island, Bryce inspired me to speak with the Pratchetts.

My life with Laurel is more than I deserve. She helped me negotiate the ins and outs of finding a prosthetic molded specifically to my leg. After watching a giant balloon engulf half my calf and creep partially up my thigh, the pressure started to create the mold. It was intense, but she was there for all of it. The result: a socket molded to my residual limb. Other than hassles over payment and coverage, the new limb has proven flawless. The learning curve was about a day.

“Hey, where’d you go?” Laurel stands on the beach, Cory’s beach treasures in her hands.

I’ve been lost in thought. Today is the big day and she doesn’t even know it. I just hope all goes well. Suddenly Cory sees Travis on the back porch, and waves and then they start the Andre the Seal game, running toward each other and Travis dropping to the ground, rolling on his back. “Oh my God, I can’t believe how much he loves that.”

She smiles. “Which one? Travis or Cory?”

Grinning, I take her hand. The Inn’s been closed from February to the end of March and is reopening next weekend.

By the time we reached Travis, he’s standing again, and he clasps me in a bear hug. The kid is lithe but solid.

“Hey, my man,” he says and then to my leg. “Well done.”

We haven’t seen each other since Christmas and the new leg.

We chat for a few minutes about his classes. This is his last year as a full-time student and next fall he’ll be working in a practice as part of his internship program. He’s excited. He’s headed out to Colorado the end of the summer and already talked to Devon about friends she has there who he might stay with while he relocates.

The entire time he talks about moving, Laurel has a hand on his arm. I know she doesn’t want him to go. It’s a year-long program and a year is a long time. I need her in a good place for what is about to happen, though, so now is the time to pry her away.

“We’re going to be late,” I said glancing at my watch.

“Oh—right,” says Travis knowingly. “Tick-tock. Lunch reservations await.”

“Do I need to change?” She’s dressed in faded blue jeans, the real kind, faded from wear and love, a blue- green pullover with a dark brown collared shirt and a scarf with all the colors swirled together. It is a gift from Audrey Pratchett as a Thanksgiving thank you.

“No, you’re perfect.”

We each give Cory a kiss on top of his head, which he tolerates with some pouting and then we head to the Lexus.

“Aren’t you starving?” she asks.

Lately, since last fall, there've been twinges of hunger here and there. But I still keep a timer on my watch to remind me to eat. “Yes,” I say, nodding vigorously. “Starved.”

She gives me a silly, withering look. “You’re so weird. I don’t understand how you never get hungry. How can you be so out of touch with this?” and she strokes my chin with her finger. She means how can you be so oblivious to your needs, to yourself?

“It's a coping mechanism, or so I've been told.”

She looks around. “Why are we going here?”

The driveway to the Pratchetts’ is long with just a reminder of snow in the pockets and gullies which face north and receive little sun.

“There’s something we have to do here,” I say and take her hand. The Pratchetts wave from inside the house through the large paned living room window. Laurel waves a limp hand back.

“Mateus, why are we here?”

I don’t say anything but lead her into the back yard. The little cobblestone path leading from the main house to the gardener’s cottage is damp, but cheery. “Wait,” she says pulling back, but I edge her closer, my hand at the small of her back.