Page 66 of Lily In The Valley
No read receipt. No reply. I stared at the message until my eyes burned. Then I flipped the phone face down and turned off the lamp. The dark wasn’t empty. It pulsed with the things I hadn’t said. With the weight of being too late and wanted too little. I laid back on the bed, hoodie still on, heart thudding like I was already 30,000 feet in the air.
She didn’t know I was coming.
But maybe, just maybe, she’d feel it.
Chapter 21
Kelly
Another night sitting aloneon the balcony of my apartment. Coldness clung to my bones, not sharp, not violent. Just persistent. The sky was steel-gray, a kind of muted Seattle dusk that felt like the day had been erased too early. I pulled my robe tighter around my body as I stared out at the evening commotion. A cold glass of wine rested in my hand. I sat back in the patio chair, my knees tucked tight under my chin. The frenzy from my day at the hospital had long since dissipated. All that was left was a subtle ache in my heart.
I missed my mom.
I missed being able to call her and say “today was hard” without needing to explain why.
I missed my old self. The one who could walk into a room and feel sure of who she was. The one who knew exactly where her edges stopped. It was as if my mother took that very essence of me with her to heaven. Now everything inside me felt blurred. Pulled thin.
I looked at my phone and took a sip of the tart, fruity wine. Khalil’s last message lit up on the screen.
Big Head
Let me know if you need anything.
Or if you just want somebody to talk to.
I’m still here.
You don’t have to go through this alone.
The words hit like they always did. Gentle. Patient.Him. I stared at them for a long time. Felt them press against my ribcage. I wanted to write back. But what could I say? That I didn’t want him to fix me, but was mad he stopped trying? That I missed him so much it made my skin itch? That I’d watchedLeprechaun in the Hoodalmost every night my first two weeks here in Seattle just to feel like he were here with me? I could, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to be mad, pissed. Khalil wouldn’t let me. He’d make it so I could cry. I didn’t want to cry. I placed the phone down in my robe’s pocket and walked into the kitchen. Opened the wine. Poured another glass.
I took out my phone. Opened his message thread and typed:I’m sorry. Then deleted it. Typed:I miss you. Deleted that, too. Instead, I whispered it aloud–into the room, into the quiet, into the part of me that still believed he could hear me when I didn’t speak.
“I miss you.”
The wine glass trembled in my grip. I set it down. Curling into the corner of my couch, I hugged one of the throw pillows my mother kept in her living room, no matter the furniture. It still had the scent of wine-dipped florals if I pressed my face into it just right. I inhaled deeply as I sat in the dark, watching the single flame of the candle on my coffee table flicker. Silence hummed around me. Felt the creep of the ache unfolding for the first time since the funeral.
I told myself I needed air. That I’d been in the hospital day after day, for weeks, buried under fluorescent lights and the low hum of machines. That my brain needed a break, a reprieve from the charts and central lines and the way every hallway reminded me of my mother. I needed to feel invisible, if only for a few hours.
I needed a night out.
I hurried to change, throwing on a matching set and heels. I googled the nearest bar, set my makeup, and headed out for my first night out in Seattle. The bar was tucked into the basement of an old brick building on a side street. It didn’t have a sign, just a single hanging light above the door and a narrow window fogged with condensation. Inside, it felt like stepping into someone’s memory, dim and low-ceilinged, with warm amber bulbs strung like fairy lights above the bar and votive candles flickering on each table.
The walls were exposed wood and deep navy, softened by vintage concert posters and shelves of dusty books no one read. Jazz played from a turntable behind the bar, slightly scratchy, like the vinyl had lived a few lives already. It smelled like charred citrus, old whiskey, and something warm and spicy drifting in from the kitchen—maybe lamb sliders or duck fat popcorn. It was the kind of place you didn’t just drink in. You sank into it. Quietly. Slowly. Like grief pretending to be elegance.
I took in the bar a minute longer before locking eyes with the guy leaning against the far wall. His eyes glanced over me, as if he’d been waiting on me all night. When he saw me, he straightened, slid his phone into his pocket, and smiled. It was soft, a smile that told you he noticed everything and wouldn’t make you explain any of it unless you wanted to.
He looked good. Polished without being a try-hard. His simple t-shirt hugged his collarbone and the sharpened lines of his shoulders. He walked over, long confident strides carriedby even longer legs. The warm glow of the vintage bulbs cast a smoky shadow over his face, deepening the impact of the manicured beard lining his jaw.
“I’ve seen you somewhere?” he asked. The warm air wrapped around us. Hopefully the dim light blurred the frayed edges of my exhaustion.
“I’ve been told my face is unforgettable.” I smiled, extending my hand.
“I know where. Still +Stirred. I get coffee there most days. What’s your name?”
“Kelly,” I replied, adding a smile-laugh. “Still + Stirred is becoming a favorite of mine.”
“It’s the best.” He looked over at the semi-empty bar then the booths across from it. “I don’t want to be forward, but do you mind if I buy you a drink?”
