Page 123 of The Cupid Chronicles

I steady my gaze as I let out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry about that, Lynn. I’ll do better.”

She squeezes my arm. “Nothing to apologize for. I’m just glad you’re here now.” She sits, motioning for me to do the same.

When I do, she smiles at me from behind her mug. “So . . . tell me about Iris. And don’t leave anything out.”

I take a deep breath. “Where do I begin . . .?”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Matteo

An hour later,I leave Lynn’s house and call Val to make sure the staff is okay without me. She sounds irritated that I’m questioning her again and tells me to leave her alone and take the rest of the day off.

For the first time since I opened Aria, I don’t argue.

The talk with Lynn settled something inside me. Like untying a knot.

As I drive back toward my apartment, I know there’s one more thing I need to do.

I guess this is what they call closure.

I drive out to the edge of town to a place I loathe.

The cemetery.

I wish I could say I’m one of those guys who has a standing date here or a folding chair tucked behind a big oak tree like Rocky Balboa at Adrian’s grave, but the truth is, I hate the reminder and the sadness and the emptiness of visiting this grave.

So many memories I’d rather avoid. So many “lasts” and so many “finals.”

None of us were ready to say goodbye, but we didn’t get the choice. Our only choice was to grieve.

After talking with Aria’s mom, I see it a little differently now. Grief can only exist as a result of great love. You can’t have one without the other.

For the first time, pulling into this place, I don’t resent it.

I park the car, get out, and start walking. Lynn picked out the headstone because I was too much of a mess to make decisions. When I reach the grave, I brush a few dead leaves from the top of the headstone, letting my hand rest on the cool marble as I stare at her name.Aria Morgan—beloved wife and cherished daughter, fierce friend and lover of delicious food.

A knot ties itself at the base of my throat.

“Hey.” I look around, feeling awkward standing here talking to a piece of stone but also feeling like this is something I need to do. “Sorry I haven’t been around much.” I suck in a breath. “I hate it here.”

With the exception of the sound of a few cars in the distance, the cemetery is quiet.

Silent as the grave, I guess.

“I saw your mom,” I say, feeling a bit awkward, talking out loud. “She’s good. Misses you.” A pause. “We all miss you.”

I shove my hands into my pockets and look around. There are flowers on a few of the headstones, but I see no other signs of visitors. “I should’ve brought flowers,” I say quietly. Absently.

I kick at a pinecone on the ground. “I’ve been having a hard time moving on,” I say. “Your mom thinks I’m punishing myself just for, I don’t know . . . being alive, or something.”

I don’t want to feel any of this again.

How can I stand here, looking at her grave, andnotremember every bit of it? The pain of being told she was gone. The pain of putting her in the ground. The pain of going home and realizing she’d never be back in my arms.

But even as I think through those painful memories, others come in right behind them. The joy of dreaming with her. Her goofy smile when I was being too serious. Riding in our car with the windows down—and her with her bare feet on the dash—on warm summer evenings. Trying new recipes. Feeding each other samples of pastries she was perfecting in our kitchen. Dreaming about our restaurant.

So much joy preceded all that pain.

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