Page 26 of The Words We Lost

“As long as you won’t be alarmed when I ask you a list of identifying questions first.”

“I won’t,” I amend softly. “I’ll talk to you later.”

After tapping the red icon at the bottom of my screen, I slip the phone into the front pocket of my hoodie. I refuse to meet Joel’s concentrated gaze while I move to collect the dishes from the dining table.

“How were you planning to get back to the cottage after dropping off the rental today?” he asks, though by the sound of it, it’s not even close to all he wants to ask me right now.

“I can manage a ride.” Which, at this moment, I’d accept from any source other than Joel. For future note, the time stamp on our civility ends promptly at the one-hour mark.

He carries the wooden platter of food into the kitchen and sets it on the counter with more restraint than I would have given him credit for, seeing as his jaw is keeping time with the second hand on the clock above Cece’s oven.

“Just leave all that,” I say, putting away the coffee creamer. “I’ll clean it up later.”

Joel pauses for a beat. “Allie’s planning to stop by in the morning; she can bring the platter back to the hotel then.”

“Actually, I’ll drop it off there myself.” Indignation simmers in my stomach as I twist toward him. “I appreciate you letting me stay here, but I don’t need a house manager. I’m perfectly capable of running my own errands, folding my own laundry, washing my own dishes, and sorting out my own transportation needs while I’m here. You don’t need to treat me like a broken little bird. I can manage just fine on my own.”

He rotates slowly from his place near the sink, and it’s only when my rump collides with an ill-placed oven handle that I realize I have nowhere to go in this too-narrow kitchen.

His gaze drags along the edges of my face until the mossy green of his eyes paralyzes my ability to look away. “I don’t think you’re broken—but I do think you’re still punishing yourself for what you had no control over. It’s okay not to have it all together all the time and to receive help.” In a different life, I would feign ignorance to what he’s referring to, but Joel knows my past as well as he knows his own. “It’s okay to let yourself talk about him. He was your father—you’re allowed to grieve him, to miss him.”

“No.” Ice crystalizes in my veins until the words burst from my encapsulated heart. “I didn’t ask for your permission, Joel, and I don’t want it.Youare the last person who gets to talk to me about my father or about my feelings. You lost that right five years ago when you left him alone to die!”

I ball my shaking hands into fists at my sides as the silence between us contracts and expands like the rising panic in my chest. I’m braced for a fight I’ve been too scared to have, only Joel doesn’t take me up on it. Instead, when he speaks again, his voice is a bruised kind of tender, a raw form of undone. “You’re absolutely right. I did lose that right. It won’t happen again.”

I trail my tongue along the dry roof of my mouth, desperate to avoid the telltale swallow that’s sure to reverberate like thunder in this tight space, when he retreats to the opposite side of the kitchen.

“If your plan is to catch an Uber from Oak Harbor, your choice of drivers will be slim. Most aren’t willing to commute this far due to the construction on the bridge—the delays are long.” He pauses. “Allie will be on standby with the hotel car if you need her. I won’t insult you further by offering you a ride myself.”

He moves into the living room to gather his things while I work to thaw my senses long enough to form a coherent reply.

“Joel, wait. I’m—”

But my plea is cut short by the click of the front door.

10

After replaying the tense moments with Joel in the kitchen a dozen times throughout the night, I wake with a heaviness I haven’t been able to mask with caffeine or even a sunrise beach walk. Upon my return to the quiet cottage, I distract myself by searching every drawer in Cece’s kitchen, bathroom, and spare room for an external hard drive or secondary device I’m not even sure exists. And still, the weight of our last interaction presses against my conscience

As if on autopilot, I reach for my backpack in search of the only thing that’s brought me any kind of relief this year. I slip Cece’s laptop from the padded pocket like the comfort item it’s become and tuck it securely under my arm. This morning I’ll perform my weekly routine in a new location, one that’s been calling to me since the day I arrived.

When I stand at the bottom of the narrow staircase leading to Cece’s office, it doesn’t take me long to bolster up the courage I need to climb. Some part of me wants to believe that the simple act of returning Cece’s laptop to its rightful place of origin—an atmospheric attic brimming with concentrated doses of Cece’s imagination—might make her feel a little less far away.

Clearly, I’m no lightweight when it comes to fantasy plot lines.

I flip the light switch and inhale as the room glows a warm amberfrom the twinkle lights strung at the top of the walls. I tiptoe across the floorboards and set her laptop on the desk before pulling out the fuzzy, sherbet-orange desk chair. Slowly, I rotate in a circle, taking in the funky lamps, the pile of boho floor pillows, and the miniature bookshelf where an intricate Lego pirate ship is displayed. She’d worked on it whenever we Facetimed late into the evenings.

I recline the chair into a nearly horizontal position and stare up at the expansive mural painted on her A-frame ceiling—something she and Wendy worked on diligently for the better part of a year after she moved in. The colorful, detailed map of the Kingdom of Cardithia and all its surrounding seas and ships is the most unique aspect of Cece’s writing attic. She used to tell me that whenever she was lost, she only had to look up to find her way again.

How many times had I wished that was true in my own life?

I peer up at the detailed painting, my throat uncomfortably tight. “Where is it, Cece? Where isThe Fate of Kings?”

But like every other time I’ve asked that question, no answer comes.

I grip the chair lever under my right thigh, and in an instant I pop back to a sitting position. My gaze falls once again to a laptop I’ve spent more time with than most people spend with their significant others. Even though I gave up searching for the digital file ofThe Fate of Kingson this hard drive months ago, there were other hidden gems I found during my explorations.

I twist the sea glass ring on my finger around twice before I open the lid and click into the bookmarked browser at the top right: CeceliaJ. Campbell’s Memorial Page.

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