Page 106 of Finding Hope

“So I wanted to do something for it. She doesn’t ever have to be ignored or forgotten.”

I look back up at the double-edged guilt. “I don’t ignore or forget her.”

“I know you don’t, but I see your guilt. Guilt that you’re here, and she’s not. Guilt that you were driving that day, but you survived.” She stops and stares into my eyes. “I see the guilt when you look at me. Youfeel guilty for being with me, like you’re cheating on her. Then you feel guilty because you think that hurts me, like you’re cheating on me.”

“I don’t know how to reconcile you both,” I admit quietly. I’m too weak to meet her gaze, too tired to keep my head up. “I don’t know how to be happy. I don’t know how to be with you without it feeling like I’m spitting in her face.”

“You don’t have to feel guilty anymore, Jack. She’s not here, so you’re not cheating on her. I know your history. I know you love her. Iknoweverything. And I’m okay with it. So, you’re not cheating on me, either.”

“But, Bambie–”

“It’s alright, Jack.” She squeezes my hand. “You already have so much to hurt over, so much devastation and loss. I won’t add anything to your already over heaped plate of guilt.”

She leans forward and lays a soft kiss on my cheek. On the spot my dimple digs in. “So, I have something for you today. I’m hoping to ease your guilt.”

“How?”

Smiling softly, she brings our joined hands to her mouth and kisses mine. “Our visitors are just in time.” She looks past me to the Kincaid minivan pulling up ten feet away from us. Then more cars. More trucks. “Hop out. I have something for you.”

She climbs out of the car and lets Annie jump out her door. I climb out after her and study my family as they flood from their cars.

I don’t know what to expect, perhaps a chainsaw wielding psycho to chop us up and bury us in a shallow grave, but when Bambie opens her trunk and a half a million helium inflated balloons pop out, my eyes flare wide.

The little kids squeal with delight, but I’m too damn confused to even question why thirty people have just arrived onourlookout.

“Don’t worry about the balloons,” she murmurs. “They’re all tied down to the tire wrench. They’re not going anywhere till we untie them.”

I nod and watch her root around in the bottom of the trunk. Pulling out a handful of sharpies, then about a hundred balloon strings, she turns away amid a mass of white balloons floating in the space above her head.

“Come with me.”

I follow her to a shitty, old wooden picnic bench that we’ve never used. My car has always been perfectly comfortable. Standing on the chair, then sitting on the table, Britt faces me with a gentle smile and offers a marker.

Our visitors stand back in silence. The adults grab the smaller kids,and the bigger kids – Evie and Bean – stand hand in hand and watch my world spin out of control.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Tell her you love her.”

I frown. Turning the sharpie around and around in my hand, I look up. “What?”

She passes me a single floating balloon. “Tell her you love her. Remind her ofwhyyou love her. Tell her everything you never got to, everything you wish you did. Tell her you’re doing okay, because I know she’s worried.”

“I still don’t get it. Why’s everyone here?”

Nodding, she maneuvers the hundred balloon strings and sits on them to free up her hands. Taking a single balloon and a sharpie, she starts writing on it.

A minute later, she spins it to face me.‘Steph, I love you because you loved Jack.’

My throat closes up, and when she releases the balloon, a single tear slides over my cheek and tickles my bottom lip as I watch it float toward the heavens.

“They’re here because they love you, Jack.” She waits for my eyes to come back to hers. “They’re here because they want you to know they love Steph, too. And for as long as she lives on in so many hearts, she’ll never truly be gone. They’re here because you’re not alone in this.” She nods toward my balloon. “Now it’s your turn.”

A final car pulls up behind Jon’s truck, and when the family of three climb out with tears already in their eyes, dread and guilt sit low in my belly. “Fuck.”

Climbing out of the car, Steph’s mom walks toward me with ribbons of tears streaming over her face.

I haven’t seen her in months.

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