Page 110 of Lotus

And sometimes, it’s not about survival at all. It’s aboutliving throughthe worst possible loss, heartache and pain, regardless of whether or not we make it to the other side. My mother lived through an unimaginable tragedy. A devastating loss.

In the end, she did not survive.

But while she did not survive the battle itself, I am certain she wielded her sword with grace, dignity, and love.

And that is true strength.

After my appointment, I take the liberty of visiting Sydney. It’s been three days since our argument, and I am not faring well. She wanted space, and I promised myself I would give her anything she needed, but I don’t think what shetrulyrequires is space—it’s reassurance. It’s the promise that I won’t leave her again. It’s the confirmation that I return her love, which, I thought had been overtly obvious. But I didn’t want to communicate such a significant sentiment through electronic message, nor did I want to infringe on her desire for privacy.

However, it’s beenthree days… I cannot go another moment without relieving her of her worries, regardless of her misguided request for space.

Of course, I love her. I love her more than I love fresh air.

And, well, it’s Christmas Eve and I have a gift for her.

Sydney opens the door looking disheveled, dabbled in paint smears. Her glasses are crooked, her hair wild, clothes wrinkled and worn.

She’s perfect.

“Merry Christmas,” I tell her, one hand in my pocket and the other tucking her gift under my arm. “May I come in?”

Watery eyes drift to the wrapped present, a hint of a smile lifting. She nods. “Of course.” Sydney steps aside, allowing me entry, her fingertips tapping together in front of her. “Merry Christmas.”

My own smile greets her, lingering, showcasing just how much I’ve missed her over the last few days. The fact that I was able to touch her, taste her,haveher, only to be abruptly cut off, is a feeling I can’t quite describe. It’s a loss that makes my soul ache. “I realize you asked for space, but…” I dip my eyes, locating the correct words. “Well, I don’t agree it’s in the best interest of either of us. We spent far too many years apart. There is no gain in purposely avoiding one another.”

Sydney looks like a tightly wound coil of emotion, waiting to combust. She presses her lips together, fidgeting on both feet as she picks at her shirt sleeve. “I don’t want space either, Oliver. But if it’s going to be forced on me, I need to pull back now. I’m already helplessly attached to you,” she chokes out, tears visible, destined to fall. “If I sink any further, I’ll never get out. I won’t recover from losing you twice.”

“Syd…” I shut the door and set the gift down beside my feet, moving in on her with outstretched palms. Cradling her face between them, I whisper, “This was never about losing me. This was about trying to become the best possible version of myself, even if that meant a temporary sacrifice. It was never permanent, and it was only considered out of my feelings for you.”

She places her hands atop mine. “But what if we grow apart, or you meet someone else, or…”

“Shh, that’s nonsense,” I tell her firmly, thumbs dusting away her tears. “That’s all in your mind. There is only you.”

Chin ducking to her chest, Sydney inhales a fractured breath, slipping from my grasp. At first I fear she’s pulling away, taking back her space, protecting her heart from a loss that doesn’t exist—but she reaches for my hand instead, offering me a small smile. “Come with me. I was just finishing up your Christmas present.”

I follow her up the staircase to her office, hand-in-hand, curiosity overriding my worry for the time being. Her paints are lined up on a side table, well-used, and Alexis is curled into a ball on Sydney’s computer desk in the corner, warming the keyboard. A tiny Christmas tree sits atop the desk, the only festive flare given to the room.

Sydney releases my hand to step over to her easel, bending down to fetch the canvas perched beside it, facing away from me. “It’s almost finished,” she tells me. “There’s a minor detail I want to add, but I think it’s ready for you to see.”

Beaming with anticipation, I pace forward, unable to hide my grin. “You made me a painting?”

“I did. I’ve been working on it for a long time,” she nods, flustered. “There’s an addition I included that I hope you like.”

“I’ll love it.”

She appears nervous and frazzled—as if there’s a chance I would dislike it. Sydney could paint me a custom portrait of Lorna Gibson and I’d hang it on my wall with pride.

Sydney fiddles with her hair, worrying her lip between her teeth before taking a deep breath. She blows it out hard. “Okay, here you go. Merry Christmas, Oliver.”

I reach for it eagerly, catching her fearful eyes before flipping the canvas around and viewing the picture.

The air catches in my lungs, and I have to remind myself to breathe.

A pink lotus flower is painted along the bottom of the canvas, fading up into a fairytale scene: a little boy in overalls holding hands with a little girl with sunshine pigtails as they stand atop a grassy hill, watching fireworks light up the sky. Reds, blues, and violets are spattered across the top of the portrait, raining color and beauty down upon the storybook image.

And sitting next to the little girl is an orange tabby, while a raccoon rests beside the boy.

It’s us.

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