Page 143 of The Lilac River

Twelve Years Ago

The air smelled like summer. Warm grass, cut hay, a whisper of lavender drifting up from the fields below. We were lying on a blanket just past the fence line behind the Miller ranch, hidden beneath a big elm tree that had probably seen generations of kids falling in love beneath its branches. The sun was sinking, painting the sky in soft pastels, lavender, blush, gold.

I could feel her beside me without even looking. Lily.

My Lily. But somehow, tonight, that name didn’t feel big enough anymore. She was so much more than Lily to me.

Stretched out on her stomach, her hair spilling across her arms, her chin propped up on her hands she watched the sky shift above us. The last light of day had turned her hair into golden silk. Her bare shoulder brushed mine. Every time it did, my heart forgot how to beat right.

“You ever think about colors?” she asked suddenly, voice soft.

“Colors?”

“Yeah. How everyone has one. A color that feels like them.” She turned her head toward me, her smile small but sweet. “What color do you think you are?”

I pretended to think, mostly because I was too distracted by the way the breeze lifted strands of her hair. “Probably... gray,” I said finally. “Or brown. Ranch dirt, you know?”

She nudged my arm with hers. “You’re not dirt, Nash Miller.”

“Maybe pine green then,” I amended, smirking. “Earthy. Reliable.”

She giggled. “Okay, that’s a little better.”

“What about you?”

She hesitated, then whispered, “Lilac.”

I blinked. “Lilac?”

“Not purple. Not lavender. Lilac. It’s softer. A little sad, a little sweet.”

Her voice wobbled at the edges, and I rolled onto my side to look at her fully. There was something in her eyes, something a little lost. Something I knew she kept hidden, but it was her tale to tell, when she was ready.

“You’re not sad,” I told her, brushing a curl back from her cheek. “Not really.”

“Not always,” she admitted. “But sometimes. I think that’s just how I was made.”

I didn’t say anything at first, because I knew that feeling. That ache that never really went away. We didn’t talk about her dad much, in fact, never. As for mine, I only spoke of him if I had to. But it was there in the quiet. In the way we both understood that some pain didn’t go away just because you pretended it wasn’t there.

She sat up then, legs crossed, the straps of her blouse falling just off one shoulder. The fading light made her glow. Lilac. She was right. That was her.

Not just the color.

The feeling.

Soft. Unexpected. Lingered long after it passed.

I sat up, too, watching her. Then, without really thinking about it, I said, “Lila.”

She tilted her head. “What?”

“Lila,” I repeated, smiling a little. “It’s you. It’s Lily and lilac. Rolled into one.”

She blinked at me, surprise flickering in her eyes.

“I’ve been calling you Lily since the first day I met you,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck. “But lately...it doesn’t feel like enough. You’re more now. You’re more than mine. More than Lily Jones, the most beautiful girl in the world.”

The way her breath caught made my chest go tight.

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