Page 60 of Return To You

The carpet and sheer curtains and the pillows are all gone, though I’m sure if I dug under the branches, I might find traces of the mirror Grace had insisted on bringing up. “Look how beautiful we are,” she’d say when we lay naked, after sex.

Sometimes during. She was so daring. So beautiful. So fun.

So in love with me.

Turning around to face what’s left of the tree again, I see it now. The spot on the trunk, at eye level, now carved out. The spot that held our phrase.

Tracing its contours, I imagine her coming here, using a chisel to save this small piece of what was once us. Did she often return here, after I was gone? Did she use the tree house for herself? Or did she only come when she could no longer see the tree from her house?

I figured that out, waiting for her with her cat on my lap. The couch faced Woodbury Knoll, and she would have had a vantage point on our tree, which stood so tall above the others. That was one of the reasons we’d chosen it. So we could see it from afar. Like a silent testimonial to our hidden love.

It was so tall, it attracted lightning. How ironic, I think. Just like our love—too big, too tall. It was meant to burn down.

Nimble limbs spurt from the broken trunk, making me pause. This tree hasn’t been gone long. A year or two at most. Running my thumb on the scar from its missing piece, I come to the same conclusion. Grace has been here relatively recently. My guess is, right after lightning hit the tree and she could no longer see it from her window.

So—while I was thousands of miles away. While she hadn’t seen me in years. While there was no plausible reason to believe she’d ever see me again, other than, possibly, in passing, she came here. To carve out our sign. To safekeep it. To have it closer to her.

I sit on the fallen trunk, take my shoes off, shake the pebbles off, put my shoes back on. My eyes are a little wet, I’m not gonna lie.

I’m calm… er. I just need to understand her. My heart is heavy. I don’t know where to start. And I don’t want this to be the end, either.

I swing by the farm to change into clean jeans and a T-shirt. Mom is reading in the sunroom and Dad headed out for some business with the neighboring farm. I look for the travel mug I bought for Grace and never had a chance to give back to her after the end of camp, so I can clean it and bring it back to her. But it’s not in my saddle bags, where I could swear I put it.

Then it hits me. I gave it to Colton. What the fuck was I thinking? He probably threw it away. Sneaking into Mom’s craft drawer, I take a gold permanent marker and drive my motorcycle to Easy Monday. There’s a bright pink mug with cat silhouettes in various poses all around.

Perfect.

“A Harvest Hug?” the owner, Millie asks me. “Lemme rinse that for you first.”

“Actually, it’s still morning, so…”

She smiles at me. “Maple Kiss then.”

She does the whole frothing thing and hands me the mug. “She’s gonna love that one too,” she says as I pay.

Once on my bike, I pull out Mom’s gold permanent marker and write the words:

A Heart Prank Reign

Then I secure the mug upright in a saddle bag and drive carefully downtown.

Grace’s spa is in a house off The Green. With its white columns, steps to the front door, and girly decor inside—all golds and whites and light pink—it’s a little intimidating for a guy like me. I feel like the proverbial bull in a China shop. “I’m here to see Grace—Miz Harper.” Shit, is that still her last name? I know so little about her current life, it twists me.

The lady at the reception desk taps on a slick computer screen that seems to float above the antique desk. “Do you have an appointment?”

I round my eyes at her. An appointment, me? In a place like this?

“Uh… no, I’m just… I just need to talk to her.”

Her eyebrows shoot up and a warm smile spreads over her face. She points to a fancy little white seat, the kind that’s probably named after a French king. “Have a seat.”

“Thanks,” I say, as I park myself standing in the corner next to a window.

“She’s going to be a while,” the lady says. “Want me to refill this for you?” She’s pointing to the mug I’m holding. Does she think this is my mug?

“How long?”

She checks her computer again. “About ninety more minutes.”

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