Page 45 of Bone Dust

“Anger’s a part of grief. You loved them, Ian, and you felt abandoned. There’s no shame in feeling what you felt. Grief doesn’t come with instructions.”

A flash of anger erupts inside of me and my gaze flies back to him. I hated the doctors who saved me the minute I opened my eyes. By then, there was nothing left of me but bone dust and I didn’t care if I lived or died. I begged a god I didn’t believe in to take me to my mother or bring Dash back. I railed at God, telling him he made a mistake. Nobody warned me about death, and no one prepared me for grief. Dying is the one thing we all know is coming and the one thing we’re least prepared for.

Silence falls, the heavy conversation pulling away from words leaving us both with our thoughts. I sit with my confession, knowing that we’ve gone far off-topic from my original purpose. I’ve lost everyone I’ve ever cared about and now, I’m about to lose Sam.

“I kissed Savannah.” I vomit the words.

His eyes widen and a slinky grin instantly fills his lips. “She kiss you back?”

“What?” I rear back with shock. I’d braced myself for contempt, anger, or anything of the like but not for this reaction.

“Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt.”

We both turn at the soft interruption as Savannah approaches. She comes closer, her expression puzzled. Obviously, she’s overheard some of what was said, butSam dismisses her upspoken question, looking up at the clock on the wall and then back at her. “You’re here early.”

“I had an appointment in town that ended earlier than I expected,” she explains. “I figured I’d come in to try out a new song.” She bends down and whispers in my ear. “Just so you know, Gigi was a chatterbox at Cora’s this morning. It was all about fireflies.”

“Fireflies?” Sam’s brow quirks. “You mean, lightning bugs?”

Savannah turns to him, pursing her lips. “I didn’t think you heard me, but yes. Gigi was introduced to the wonders of lightning bugs last night and she’s now completely fascinated.”

“Do tell …” Sam’s grin mutates to a smirk as his brows hike up. He looks between Savannah and me, pausing for a second as Savannah leaves us to go into the back room.

“It’s nothing,” I explain.

Sam’s chuckle is low and throaty. “Uh-huh. Not to her, it’s not. How’d she come to be at your place?”

“My bike broke down. Didn’t you get my message? I left it here overnight. Savannah drove me home.”

“So, how’d you get here today? Your truck?”

“Yeah. I hitched a trailer to it so I can haul the bike back to the ranch.”

“So, she got to see your place, huh?” The smirk turns into a smug grin, accompanied by a knowing expression. He calls to Savannah, who is now behind the bar getting a soft drink. “It’s a pretty place, isn’t it, Savi? Ian’s done got himself a jewel out there. He’s done a lot of work to that house; especially how he made over that kitchen and that gigantic stone fireplace. I’ll bet you liked that.”

“I didn’t see it. We were outside, but I did see the pretty gardens.” Her eyes soften as she turns to me and smiles so sweetly my chest swells. “Maybe next time.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Savannah

“I

have something for you.”

“For me?”

I nod but say no more. Ian’s astonished look reminds me of Gigi on Christmas morning, and seeing the display in a grown man threatens to unmoor my emotions. How is it that someone who had the world at his fingertips thinks so little of himself that he’s shocked by the announcement of a gift? It’s a good bet that he lacks for nothing in material wealth, so maybe this is something that will speak to the part of him that hurts. That little boy inside who never felt he mattered—and he does matter, and this is the only gift I can think of that will speak to his heart.

A song.

It’s the best way to reach a musician and, for all of Ian’s denying it, music is still a big part of his life. The song came to me last night in a dream, forced me awake, and ran in a loop through my head until I got up out of bed, my eyes half-lidded, and found paper and a pencil. I found it where Gigi left a hand-drawn picture of a blue guitar. She laid it on top of a magazine, its waxy crayon squiggles and swirls drawn by our personal van Gogh, in miniature. Once I had the words down, I went back to sleep, only to be awakened a few hours later by Gigi. She cuddled with me in my bed, humming a simple and sweet tune. I took it, folded the words into the notes and, in little more than an hour, wrote a song. Ian’s song.

I walk away from the two men, abandoning them in favor of the stage. Heat warms my cheeks, climbing from my chest and neck. I inch back in my seat and pull the guitar close. When I glance across the room, I see Sam standing behind the bar with Ian a few feet behind him. Inhaling a deep, nerve-dispensing breath, I close my eyes for a silent moment and focus on one more deep inhale. You’ve got this, Savannah.

I lean into the microphone and softly strum, sending the song from mine and Gigi’s hearts to his.

A place you should have been

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