Page 108 of When Wildflowers Bloom

I shake my head. “I should go.” I force myself to both stand and smile. “Thank you for hosting my meltdown.” I laugh a weak, watery sound.

She walks over, squeezes me in a genuine Libby hug. “Anytime, Pam Beesly.”

When she pulls back, there’s a slight smile ghosting her lips. “Anything you need, I mean that. We were Bo’s first, but we’re yours now too.”

She means it. It would make me cry again if I wasn’t so tired.

On my way to the door, wet clothes in a trash bag, John grabs me for a big hug. “You had months to accept it was coming, he’s only had hours. Give him time.” I nod against his chest. Then, “He’s a stubborn asshole anyway.”

He doesn’t mean it, but I laugh anyway.

I cancel dinner with my dad; he shows up on my steps with food anyway.

While Veda is dead and Bo blames me, my dad cooks steaks in my kitchen and listens to me sob out the whole awful story. Again.

“Losing Bo hurts more than Veda dying, does that make me horrible?” I ask my dad as we do the dishes.

He makes a deep,hmmsound, then pauses the way he does.

“Veda lived a good life. She told us that last night,” he starts.

Last night.

Right. Because twenty-four hours ago, we were laughing in Bo’s house eating cake, and Veda was still alive, and Bo still loved me.

“She had a life filled with love. Loss? Sure, but it’s clear the love was stronger. Hers is a complete story. She did what she came here to do. Lived fully, died on her own terms after a lot of years.” He puts a plate in the dishwasher. “But Bo?” He gives me a sideways glance. “It’s a story that’s ended in the middle. That never leaves anyone happy.”

I swallow once. Twice. Three times. However many times I have to until I’m able to talk without breaking down.

“I hate that Bo hates me, but I hate myself more for knowing I wouldn’t have done anything differently.” The confession sounds like it comes out of someone else’s mouth. Like I’m outside of my body, watching my own life from the sky.

“I know, Little Bird,” he says. “I know.”

Sitting on my couch long after my dad leaves, I stare at my purse on the coffee table. The envelopes—long forgotten in the pain of the day—poke out of the top.

I pull them out.

Bo scribbled on one, Birdie the other. Veda’s shaky, slanted writing as familiar as my own.

My hands trembling, heart pounding, I open the envelope left for me.

Dear Birdie,

If you’re reading this, I have no doubt you’re feeling everything there is to feel toward me. Maybe you even hate me. Knowing how you feel about Bo, I’m most certain you must hate me at least a little right now. For that, I’m forever sorry. Just like I couldn’t let Bo see me suffer, I couldn’t let Bo find me gone. It had to be you. Part of me believes you already understand it.

You asked me once if the reason I hired you was because of the cancer—I told you that was only part of it. It was also because of Bo. The way he looked at you that first day on my porch was the way his grandfather looked at me in our college ceramics class. A look that was a poem without a name—so full of reverie.

I meant it when I said you were a good friend to me, Birdie. You made my last months special. Sacred. Gave me a reason to keep fighting, even on the days I didn’t want to. I put my hands in the clay and laughed loudly because you kept showing up. I didn’t know it, but I needed you in my life. Maybe even your food.

So does Bo.

If you can forgive me, he will most certainly forgive you.

Love him, Birdie. Let him love you.

Love always,

Veda

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