Page 32 of Lost Love on 6th Street

Luke scratches his hand back through his hair before tucking his hat onto his head, shade engulfing his features. “Let’s head to the car. Need the AC.”

We walk side by side toward his car. Luke and I have spent the last two weeks going through the names on the list we formulated from Bobby’s ledger. We’ve called some people and others we’ve found on Google. It’s been a true scavenger hunt through the who’s who of Austin’s music scene past. At first, it was fun. Nancy Drew and one of the Hardy Boys.

Except now, we’re at the end of the list and no closer than we were when we started.

Luke walks faster than I do. It’s not just the long legs this time, though. I’ve got my eyes plastered to my phone screen as I type in “Diane Bloom.” I can’t wait until I get to the car. I need to rip off the Band-Aid.

The webpage thinks for a moment before the results pop up. A PhD at UNC. Some LinkedIn profiles. A purveyor of crystals.

I return to the search bar and type in “Austin” after the name.

“Eleanor, come on, you’re going to get a sunburn,” Luke calls out.

“I’ll be fine,” I say before pressing search.

My heart falls at the sight of the first result.

Diane Bloom Obituary.

I stop in my tracks.

There was never a promise I would find whoever the woman in this picture was, let alone find her alive.

Still, though. It’s heavy.

I tap the link and pull up the obit.

Diane Bloom, a devoted mother, musician, and animal lover, passed away peacefully after a courageous battle with breast cancer. Throughout her life, Diane’s love for music was a guiding force, shaping her journey and leaving an indelible mark on those around her. Her guitar was never far out of reach, and she could always be caught humming a tune.

Diane is survived by her loving daughter and her “pack.” Diane’s legacy lives on through the music she wrote and the love she gave to all the humans and animals around her.

In lieu of flowers, the family requests that donations be made to Playing For Change to honor Diane’s love for music and conservation.

Below the paragraphs is a headshot of a woman holding a little girl with flaxen hair. One of those department store photo sessions.

It’s her. The woman from the photo.

The screen blurs as tears fill my eyes.

“Hey.”

I was so focused on reading I didn’t notice Luke. He’s standing in front of me, so close that his hat provides a little bit of shade for me. Blessed shade.

“She’s dead,” I say.

Luke is silent. I push my phone into his hand and head over to the car, knocking the tears off my cheeks with the back of my hand. I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s just a photo, a photo of a woman I’ve never met. So embarrassing. I grab the door handle and pull. It’s locked. “Can you unlock it please?” I ask.

“Eleanor . . .”

“Luke, just unlock the car.” I’m so tired. We’ve come this far. And she’s not even alive.

His hand lands on my shoulder. Relief floods through me. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. This was . . . this was a waste of time,” I say, my voice crimping higher and higher with each word.

Luke slides his hand across my back. “Was the point to find her alive?”

I sigh. “No, it’s—” My voice locks in the back of my throat. I tighten my jaw to keep from a sob coming out of me. Swallow it back. You’re fine. “I just didn’t expect to get so attached. And I didn’t expect she’d be gone.”

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