Page 58 of A Not So Merry Rescue
Tucked against me, her shoulders quake, another crying fit ensuing. All I can do is hold her, let her get it out, be there for her, give her a semblance of comfort.
My mind reels with the information, so many questions swirling around about what happened next. How long they were together. Their relationship status.
I want to know everything she’ll tell me. I want her to give me her pain.
A twinge pangs in my chest, a feeling so unfamiliar, it catches me off guard. I can’t deduce what it is, so I don’t try.
I hold Willa until her silent cries subside, rubbing her back, offering compassion. A part of me wishes I could have met the girl she was before.
Was she as quirky?
Was she as quick-witted?
Was she as strong and resilient?
“The driver who hit him was drunk. At eight o’clock in the morning. From the night before.” Her voice is raspy, like her throat’s raw and scratchy.
Bastard.
“Was it a hit and run?”
“No. Guy was so wasted, after driving over Elias, he hit a brick wall. Bastard didn’t die. Had he not hit Elias, he would have been killed on impact. He wasn’t going as fast when he hit the wall. I lost the love of my life, and he walked away with a broken leg and some jail time. Hardly seems fair.”
“It never is in these situations. I’m so sorry, Willa. I can’t imagine what something like this does to a person.”
“Christmas is forever ruined. I haven’t been able to write even a chapter?—”
I cut her off. “What do you mean? I thought that’s what this week was about. A writing retreat.” How it’s so much more, I now understand.
She sits up, positioning herself next to me instead of on my lap. “I’ve had writer’s block since that day. Haven’t written a damn word. How can I? Had I not gotten lost in my book, I could have maybe made it to the hospital. Said goodbye. Told him I loved him one last time.”
I want to tell her not to think that way, it wasn’t her fault, and who knows if things would have ended otherwise. My mouth opens, but no words come out. Who am I to tell her how to feel?
I try a different tactic. “I can see how this tragedy would destroy your mojo. So you weren’t planning on writing this week?”
“I truly hoped by escaping my normal life, being somewhere secluded, I’d find inspiration. Or maybe it’s more like finding peace with writing. Forgiveness of sorts. Elias would be the first in line to be pissed at me for giving up, for running away. If he knew, if he were here, he’d force my fingers to the keys to type. It wouldn’t matter what the words were, I just had to type something. Anything. It could be gibberish, and he’d be happy.” A sardonic laugh bubbles from her, a minute levity in the current situation.
“Well, have you tried that?”
She faces me. “Uh, no.”
“Why not?”
Her expression turns serious. “I don’t speak gibberish. What if I spell words wrong?”
I ponder my response to her earnest question. “Does it matter if they aren’t real words?”
“In reality, no. But in my current situation? It’s one more excuse so I don’t have to actually write.”
A wacky idea strikes me, lighting me up with its brilliance.
Sure, it’s odd, but what with Willa hasn’t been?
I hope she sees it for what I mean it to be: encouragement.
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