Page 146 of The Temptation of Truth
as if the void
never
learned
your
name.
My chest swells with pride, and I have to wipe away more tears before they fall onto the page.
“You got to Marrakech,” I whisper, running my finger over the words, feeling the indentions in the paper.
She’s so talented. I knew she would be, but it’s so amazing to see. I can feel the emotion in her words, and I can imagine her, sitting on a bench inJardin Majorelle, pouring her emotions into this notebook.
I turn to the next page and find it decorated with more pressed flowers, another poem, and another polaroid, this one with a new location and date.Palace of Versailles Gardens, May 15th.
It’s a travel diary, I realize, and she sent it to me. It’s full of memories, flowers, and poetry—full ofher—and she wanted me to have it.
For the next few hours, I sit on the floor in my foyer, and I devour every single page. I run my fingers over every pressed flower. Study every single polaroid. Read, and reread every line of every poem. Aurora documented two years of travel—trips separated by mere days to a few months—in the way only she could, and it makes me ache with missing her.
I know Ham speaks to her regularly, and I’m pretty sure she stays at his penthouse from time to time, but I never ask him about her, and he never says a word. I still think of her every single day. I still long for her every night. It’s never stopped, but it’s been a while since these feelings were this visceral. Tothe point of a physical pain in my chest. I don’t stop reading her diary though. I don’t stop poring over every page like I’ll be quizzed on it later. Like I need to tattoo every word and flower and image into my brain until I see it in my sleep.
I’ll start dreaming of her again. It’s going to hurt. But I welcome it if it means I’ll get to see her face.
As I reach the last page, sadness starts to overwhelm me. I don’t want it to be over. I don’t want to have to say goodbye all over again. But then I get to the end, and the style has changed.
There’s no poem. No polaroid. No pressed flowers.
Just FIND ME in black marker, followed by the name of a hotel in Iceland with a time and date. A date that is only two dates from now.
My heart jolts in my chest, and I scramble for the package. It’s post marked three weeks ago, so it must have been delivered just after I left for Georgia. It’s been sitting under a pile of mail on Sav’s counter for weeks, and if I don’t hurry, I’ll be out of time.
Quickly, I push to my feet and run to my room. I throw the journal and a few random articles of clothing into my carry-on—anything else I can buy when I get there—then shove my wallet and passport into my purse. I’m out the door and climbing into the car I rarely drive in less than five minutes. I plug the airfield into my GPS, then call Ham on the Bluetooth.
“Rossi.”
“Ham, I need the jet.”
“Why?”
“I need to go to Iceland.”
He’s doesn’t respond right away, and I grow impatient.
“Hammond!” I shout, punctuating the word with a slap to the steering wheel. “I need the jet!”
“Calm down, Rossi. It’s already fueled and waiting at the airfield.”
I frown at his name on my car’s display screen. “What?”
I could be totally losing it, but I swear I hear him try to cover a laugh with an annoyed sigh.
“It’s my job to know everything,” he says blandly, and then he hangs up.
“Fucking hell,” I mumble, but I’m grinning so big that my cheeks hurt.
I’m coming, Aurora. I’m coming.
