Page 102 of Stolen Harmony
Iwalked the familiar gravel path to Elaine's grave, my boots crunching against stones that had been worn smooth by weather and the footsteps of other mourners. The bundle of fresh white lilies in my hand felt heavier than it should have, weighted with the conversation I'd come here to have.
A week. It had been a week since the waterfall—since Rowan’s mouth on mine had rewritten everything I thought I knew about myself. Seven days of stolen glances, lingering touches, and secret nights where his body pressed against mine felt more like salvation than sin. Every time I tasted his skin or felt his hands on me, I was reminded just how impossible and inevitable this all was. I was learning the geography of someone else’s body—mapping scars, muscle, and want—while still haunted by the memory of the woman I’d loved before him. Sometimes I wondered if what we were building was a betrayal, or if it was simply the only honest thing left in a life built on grief and longing.
I knelt in front of the headstone, brushing away the deadleaves that had gathered around the base. Her name was carved into white marble that was already beginning to weather at the edges, and I traced each letter with my fingertip like I was reading braille.
“It's been a while,” I said, my voice low and hesitant, like I was speaking into a confession booth where the priest might judge me for sins I was still learning to name. “And I've been spending time with Rowan.”
The admission hung in the cold air between us, heavy with implications I wasn't ready to examine too closely. My throat tightened around words that felt too big to swallow.
“It feels like cheating,” I continued, my breath visible in small puffs that dissipated almost immediately. “But it also feels like breathing again after holding my breath for two years. I don't know what to do with that.”
I pressed the flowers into the grass at the base of her headstone, my fingers lingering on the stems like I was reluctant to let go. The lilies looked small and fragile against the vast expanse of cemetery, but they were all I had to offer.
“If you could tell me to stop, you would, wouldn't you?” The question came out rougher than I'd intended, scraped raw by months of carrying guilt I couldn't seem to set down. “You'd tell me to keep my distance, to remember my place, to not complicate his grief with my own fucked-up needs.”
A sudden shift of wind ran through the cemetery, scattering petals from other graves and making the oak trees rustle with a sound like whispered secrets. I closed my eyes and took it as a sign. Not certainty, maybe, but something close enough to permission that I could work with it.
“But sometimes,” I said, my voice growing stronger, “sometimes it feels like you're telling me to take care of him. Like maybe, somehow, this is what you'd want. For both of us to not be alone anymore.”
The tears came easier this time, without the choking sensation that usually accompanied them. I let them fall, hot against my cold cheeks, and didn't bother to wipe them away.
“I don’t know what this is yet,” I said, surprised by how shaky my voice sounded. “But it’s… different. It’s nothing like what I felt for you. It doesn’t replace what we had. It doesn’t diminish it, either. It’s just… new. Messy. I’m still figuring it out, but I can’t seem to stay away from him.”
By the time I stood, brushing dirt from my knees, there was a strange lightness beneath the familiar ache. Not the absence of grief, but something like permission to carry it differently. To let it coexist with joy instead of drowning it out.
I glanced at Elaine’s headstone, hands tucked into my pockets, searching for the words that always felt impossible to say out loud.
“I don’t know what happens next,” I admitted quietly, voice barely more than a whisper. “But there’s someone who makes it hurt less. I’m not sure if I have the right to move on, or even what that means. But I want to try.”
The wind shifted, cool against my face, and for a moment the air felt softer—less like an ending, more like an embrace.
“I hope you’d understand,” I said, “and I hope you know I’ll always love you. But I need to let myself live again.”
The words settled between us, heavy and real. Maybe she couldn’t answer, but standing there, I felt her blessing—or at least, her forgiveness.
The drive back to town took me past Lillian’s Diner, where I spotted Rowan’s motorcycle parked outside. I hadn’t planned to stop, had intended to go home and process the conversation I’djust had with a dead woman, but something pulled me toward the warm light spilling through the windows.
The bell over the door jingled when I stepped inside, and the smell of coffee and fried bacon wrapped around me like a comfortable embrace. The diner was busy with the morning crowd, fishermen grabbing breakfast before heading out for the day's catch, tourists studying maps over plates of eggs and hash browns.
Rowan was in a corner booth, one arm stretched along the back of the vinyl seat, a plate of pancakes half-eaten in front of him. He glanced up when I walked in, and something shifted in his expression when he saw me. Not surprise, exactly, but recognition. Like he'd been waiting for me without knowing it.
I slid into the seat across from him without invitation, and he didn't protest. Just kept eating his pancakes with the methodical attention of someone who was thinking about things other than food.
“You look like you've been crying,” he said without looking up from his plate.
“Maybe I have.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
He nodded like that made perfect sense, then pushed his plate toward the center of the table. “Want some? Lillian makes them from scratch.”
I took a bite, tasting cinnamon and vanilla. The normalcy of sharing food, of sitting across from each other in a public place like we had every right to be there, felt revolutionary.
We ate in comfortable silence, the clink of cutlery and hum of other conversations filling the space between us. Every so often, Rowan's knee bumped mine under the table, contact that was probably accidental but felt deliberate. Small points ofconnection that reminded me why I'd driven here instead of going home.
The diner was filling up with the morning crowd, fishermen grabbing breakfast before heading out for the day's catch, early-rising retirees who treated Lillian’s like their personal social club. I could feel eyes on us, not hostile exactly, but curious. Harbor's End was small enough that any deviation from routine became noteworthy, and two men sharing breakfast was apparently worth noting.
