Page 128 of Abyss

His soft groan as he pulled my hips flush with his, brushing his tongue against mine . . .

The heat of his body mixed with the scent of cherries—

“Kavi? Hello?”

I’m jostled from the past as Lena’s words and face come back into focus. “Yeah, uh, sorry,” I mumble, dropping my hand from my earring.

She quirks a brow. “Don’t you agree? He must have been speaking about his dead girlfriend, right? There was just something about the way he said it.”

“Yeah . . .” I agree hesitantly. “Maybe.”

She gleams. “Then it’s set. I’ll commenceOperation Dead Girlfriendby asking him more about her next time, and we can mourn her together over a fresh cherry turnover. Then I’ll strategically offer myself up in case he wants mourning sex.”

She assesses my horrified face because, at this point, I can’t tell if she’s joking or not. I don’t know her well enough to.

“Don’t knock it til you try it, sister,” she chides. “It’s almost on par with makeup-sex, though not as deliciously savage as hate-sex.”

I can’t help but giggle at her refreshing honesty. “You do that. Tell me how it goes.”

Picking up my coffee after paying for it, I’m just heading toward the exit when Lena calls me again, “Oh! A bunch of people took stubs off your flyer.” She points to the bulletin board near the exit. “Hopefully you’ll have a better turnout this weekend.”

I stop at the wall with the bulletin board to find that five of the ten stubs have been ripped off my flyer.

Not bad, I think to myself. Hopefully, my second free art therapy class will have more than the two kids who showed up last weekend.

Walking back to work, feeling better than I did when I left, I think about Amanda’s words earlier.

Perhaps there is something unexpected looming on the horizon . . .

Perhaps the winds of change are headed to Portland . . .

The question is, will that unexpected something—that shift in the air—be enough to fill the gaping hole inside my chest?

“Thankyou to those of you who brought empty shoe boxes today,” I say, addressing the ten or so kids who came to the free art therapy class I’m leading tonight. I’m thankful to have secured a room at the hospital that allows me to pursue what I love, even outside of my regular job.

“I’m so glad you all enjoyed making the memory boxes during the class project. We chose to fill our boxes with pleasant memories today,” I continue with a smile, looking at the faces of students who seem impressed with their own creations. “And my hope is that whenever you find yourself faced with tough times, reading through these upliftingmemories will help you remember those past connections and experiences with a renewed sense of happiness. I hope these memories serve as a source of positivity and strength in times you need them the most.”

I conclude the class, letting everyone know the assignment for next week, and gather the bag I’d brought filled with empty shoe boxes in case someone forgot theirs. Fortunately, almost everyone brought one with them, probably because I requested it on the flyer.

Heading to my car in the parking lot—a used Volkswagen I bought a couple of weeks ago after giving my old one to my brother—I catch sight of something laying on my hood. Hurrying over, I toss the bag of shoe boxes into my trunk before closing it and rounding to the front for the object.

It’s . . . a memory box.

Glancing around the empty parking lot, I can’t help but wonder if someone accidentally left it there. But then again, why would someone leave their memory box—-filled with their personal memories—-on my car?

Upon closer inspection, each side of the memory box is covered with pictures: cherry earrings, wildflowers, a snapshot of me on Hudson’s horse Whiskey, a batch of my cornbread cooling on his counter, my orange Doc Martens resting in his foyer, and even my old keys nestled inside a bowl.

A sudden breeze tousles my hair, matching the frantic rhythm of my heart as my eyes scan each image. My hand trembles, a surge of hysteria blooming inside me, as my brain races to catch up.

How did this get here?

When did he put it here?

When did he take these pictures?

With my heart thundering and a well of emotion gathering between my lids, I lift the top of the beautifullydecorated box. My stomach catapults as I pluck the picture of the two of us lying on his bed.

I’d taken it on his phone, my teeth grazing his scruffy jaw, my smile evident, while he stares humorlessly into the camera. It was a picture we’d taken right after making love. A picture I’d giggled looking at because, if nothing else captured the essence of Hudson Case, it was that—a man who couldn’t be bothered to smile for a camera, for anyone, really, but would freely smile at me.

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