Page 66 of Broken Hearts

He pulls me close now, holding me tightly, the hard beat of his heart drumming softly against my chest. It has this calming quality I never thought I’d experience in my life. Everything about Nate soothes me and having him close for this will be the only way I’ll get through it.

“I know it’s different for you,” Nate whispers against my hair, dropping a soft kiss where his words linger. “I’ll be there with you. This is a chance for you to hear what a wonderful man your father was.”

He stops talking when I let out a ragged sob, my breathing uneven and ragged too. His words feel like too much, but I know I need to hear them. I need to let this heal me the way it has for Nate and Alana. It’s why I’m here.

“Shh,” he murmurs, his arms pulling me as close as possible. “We’re going to get through this.” He pulls back, his fingers brushing away the tears, and he smiles.

The way he talks about this as if we’re a couple, that he has no intention of letting me be alone, makes this feel possible. But not only that, it makes me hopeful for the future, a future that includes us.

“Here,” he now says, his beautiful smile on his tanned face as he reaches for a hibiscus from a small vase on the kitchen table, breaking it off close to the flower. He tucks it into the messy bun I have tangled at the nape of my neck. “It was your dad’s favorite. The yellow ones,” he clarifies.

“Mine too.”

“It’s why it was Mitch’s favorite,” Nate says, not possibly knowing if this is true.

I shake my head, the tears welling in my eyes once again.

“I’m right, Sage. He knew you loved them too.” His words take hold in my heart, gripping tightly, never wanting to let go. I want to believe him. I want to have a piece of my father that lives in me, and this will be the memory I hold close.

“How did he die?” I now ask, the change in subject jarring and possibly morbid, but I know nothing of what happened. I haven’t wanted to approach the subject since arriving here, and even though Alana told me it was a surfing accident, it still feels too vague.

Nate takes in a hard breath, letting it out slowly. “We’re not really sure. Autopsy report says he drowned, but he also had a head injury.”

Not that I ever thought his death was anything but accidental, but I still want to hear what happened. It feels like it could bring some closure. Or it might just be the need to know, the curiosity of the unknown.

“He died doing what he loved,” Nate tells me, his smile back. “Alana and I have talked about it a lot, and what we came up with is that he went out for a surf that evening alone. Caught a wave, probably a big one and possibly got taken down. Hit some coral or a rock…” He doesn’t finish, letting my mind fill in the missing pieces.

I nod, trying to see things the way Nate does. That my dad died doing what he loved. That his death is fitting to his lifestyle, but nothing about that helps ease my pain.

I’m not sure anything will.

“We have to go, babe,” Nate now says, weaving his fingers into mine. The warmth of his touch encourages me to follow him.

He leads me out the door of his house and across the yard to the back entrance of the shop. We both step inside, and I stop, closing my eyes, I picture my dad standing here.

He loved this place more than anything, and I can feel his presence here. The smell of his blueberry surf wax fills the space. I try to take comfort in the fact that I’m here celebrating him, something he would have loved.

Nate tapes a sign to the door, saying, “Closed for Mitch’s memorial service. Join us at Turtle Beach to celebrate in his honor.” It’s handwritten and simple, just like my dad would have wanted.

“Ready?” Nate asks, again his hand in mine, giving it a gentle squeeze. And as much as I want to say no, I nod.

We walk to the beach, and when we reach the location of the ceremony, I gasp out loud, taking in just how gorgeous it is.

The beach is lined with white chairs, each one draped with yellow hibiscus flowers. And at the front, with the ocean as the backdrop, is an arbor woven with greenery and hibiscus. Mounted in the sand are multiple surfboards of all sizes. My dad’s is in the center, decorated with leis.

To the left of the arbor sits a large stand holding a picture of my father. A small table next to it with a brightly colored urn.

I choke back the sob as I take it all in.

The picture.

The urn.

The surfboard.

The ocean.

It’s overwhelming.

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