Page 11 of Love Again

And he wouldn’t do the same for me. The fact that we both care more about the other than ourselves isn’t healthy.

Luke and I both learned this lesson.

My lukewarm “I don’t know” is such a half-truth. To answer fully, I would have to open my heart and take a hard look. I haven’t had to think about Colorado in two years. I haven’t had to measure my grief, my sanity, my sense of self, against what happened.

The only time I think of Luke is when I dream.

That’s how good I am at compartmentalizing.

Geo knows this about me. I can put things in boxes with lids on tight. After Mom and Dad died, I went around and organized everything in The Inn. I washed all their clothes and I packed everything up. I took Mom’s makeup and brushes out of her drawers, then Dad’s shaving cream and razors. Everything went into boxes. Somehow, seeing everything neat and organized with lids on top made my grief more manageable. And that’s how I learned to organize my life.

Geo comes over and sits back down on the other side of me and puts a hand on my knee. “Only you know how you feel about him. The fact that you’re here talking to us, and not sitting on the porch in Echo Bay chatting with your sisters, tells me that there’s a lot more going on here than you’re telling us right now.”

I don’t say anything. I can’t say anything. Even Travis knows the tone has shifted, and he remains quiet.

“You are an adult woman. You are a good woman. You are an amazing woman,” says Geo.

I can’t hear anything else because I turn and bury myself in his arms.

“What is it about you Russo girls?” Geo says when I turn my face. He strokes my hair with his hand. “Devon, don’t you see how capable you are? You’ll figure this out. Shakespeare said the heart is a giddy thing. But it’s also a very strong muscle. You’re going to be fine.”

΅

The morning is cloudy and blustery, and the wind chimes on the front and back porches are clanging away. One large, triangular iron bell suspended from a maple branch chimes like a buoy at sea. It reminds Geo of Echo Bay, he says.

I wake to it. It reminds me of all the trouble there right now.

And all the love.

Yeasty, sweet, bacony smells waft from the hallway. I need to learn how to cook.

Travis is in the kitchen with nothing but his jeans and a thin white T-shirt. He twirls a pancake turner in his hands.

“Where’s Geo?” I place my hands briefly on the glass carafe. The coffeepot is hot. I pour some.

“That’s decaf,” he says. “If you want the real stuff, I brought some. Use the pour-over in the sink. He’s out on a run. The guy’s a machine.”

“You’re looking like a machine yourself. How do you have time to work out and be Cummings top vet student?” I slip the filter into the V of the ceramic pour-over dripper and peer at a bag of coffee.

“That’s it.” He grins. “I’m not the top student there. It’s tough.”

“For Mr. Photographic Memory? I doubt it.” I glance at the tea kettle. “That hot?”

He nods, and I lift the kettle of water off the stove. “When did he revert to decaf? What’s the point?”

“I discovered his hideous truth the last time I visited. I could not wake up, and he finally says, ‘Oh, that’s decaf.’”

“Why now?”

“He says he always has.”

“What? That’s insane. How did we not know this?”

“Because he grinds it and keeps it in that mason jar.” He flips a few pancakes bubbling on a wide electric griddle. “It’s like living with a spy. Do we even know the guy?”

I laugh, and it feels good to laugh. I scratch his back for a second and he arches slightly.

“I miss fingernails.”