Page 27 of The Words We Lost

This was once her most active profile page on social media, with a handful of trusted admins and virtual assistants to keep her fans both entertained and in the know about her latest book release news, exclusive giveaways, and any extra tidbits she wanted to offer. Now though, it is simply a place to remember.

Here there are always new posts, pictures, graphics, and favorite quotes to scroll through from at least a handful of her most loyal2.3million fans who have been contributing to it since her death. Despite having zero personal connection or regard for any social media outside of this one space, this ritual of mine has become a rare source of solace. That this group of strangers, these beloved readers of Cece’s fictional creations, can share such a unique kinship with me has been reason enough for my visits to continue.

Only this time, as I place my finger on the touchpad and scroll through the most recent admin posts, a familiar name and face jumps out among the masses: Allison (Allie) Spencer. I click on the profile picture of the same girl who regaled me with stories of college dorm life as she drove me home last night from the car rental place in Oak Harbor. The same girl who’s named a top contributor in this online group and one of only five administrators with the power to edit, delete, and generate announcements.

I willingly hop down the Allie Spencer rabbit hole—noting how many accounts she follows that have to do with Cecelia Campbell and the Nocturnal Heart series. She’s definitely earned the title ofhuge fan.

Though I stumble through multiple profiles like an arthritic ninety-year-old navigating the abyss that is social media, I finally land on the milkshake video she showed me a few days ago. She wasn’t kidding about the views or the feedback. I watch it five times over, zooming in to search the blurry background for any possible clues I could have missed the first time, but all I see is a stack of notebooks anchoring the four curled corners of Cece’s favorite nautical charting maps on the dining table.

After closing the laptop, I stand and immediately smash my skull on the low, angled ceiling.

And it’s then, as I press my palm to the throbbing ache, that Joel’s face resurfaces amidst the distraction of pain. It’s as if he’s been there this whole time, perched on the edge of my subconscious. I sigh and slip my phone out of my new pink cotton shorts, scrolling past the empty text thread between us, pretending not to notice the unanswered question I’d asked late last night like an extended olive branch.

Ingrid

When would you like to schedule our next reading time?

There had been no reply.

I tap into my contacts and dial Wendy.

When she doesn’t answer, I leave a message. Is it possible she’s working at the hotel today?

With a palm still pressed to my head, I navigate the stairs on a quest for an ice pack when I spot the hotel’s wooden serving tray from yesterday’s brunch with Joel. I forget all about my injury. It feels like a sign, or at the least, an arrow pointing me in the next right direction. I can drop the platter off, connect with Wendy, and maybe even ask some questions about Cece’s lost manuscript while reviving a dead garden.

There was still time to make this day count for something, especially when I only had thirteen of them left.

Turns out, four miles on foot while carrying a chunk of wood that might as well be a tree stump should be one of the exercises included in those tire-flipping, rope-whipping competitions. It’s maybe seventy-five degrees out by the time I reach the front steps of the hotel, but given the burn in my biceps and the way my T-shirt clings to my back, I’m certain I look like I’ve just crossed a marathon finish line.

I give myself no more than a few seconds to take in the lobby before I push myself forward, with little more than an I’m-already-checked-in-but-thank-you-anyway smile at the welcoming front desk staff. My biceps shake as I return the serving platter outside the kitchen, then slip into the employee restroom and take a minute to blot my pinked cheeks and neck with a cool paper towel. It’s not until I return to the admin hallway and read each header above the five doorways that I realize what comes next.

Anxiety flares as I pass Wendy’s darkened office door near the end of the hall and peer into the rectangular glass window. There’s nothing inside but a bare desk and empty bookshelves. I wonder when she was last here?

When I twist to stare at the door at the end of the hall, the pang in my chest registers before my brain has a chance to catch up. Sometime in the last five years, Joel Campbell was promoted to Hotel Manager. It’s the only position that would make sense after all this time, and yet it’s different to see something you speculated about for years materialize before your eyes.

From the time Joel could procure a work permit, he has held more than a dozen known job titles inside his family’s business—a signature piece of Stephen’s leadership philosophy for any employee willing to commit to the long haul. I’d bet there isn’t a single executive-level employee who hasn’t worked every entry-level position the Campbell Hotel offers. And much like his father, I’ve seen Joel pressure-wash decks after windstorms, load dirty dishes in the wee hours of the morning, fold fresh linens after scheduled housekeepers call in sick, and restore order to disastrous suites when party guests become too reckless.

I lift my fist and knock on his office door.

A strange yelping sound, followed by a round of short, encouraging commands, rocks me back a step.

“Come on in, we’re ready,” Joel’s unmistakable voice calls out from somewhere behind the door.

I shift on my feet, wondering if Joel would be quite so welcoming if he knew I was the one waiting on the other side of his door.

“Come in,” he says again a bit louder.

The instant I step inside his office, he’s on his feet.

As is the most adorable puppy I’ve ever laid eyes on.

“Ingrid,” Joel announces like a question. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Yes, I was just—” But before I can pretend to know how tofinish that sentence, I’m crouching to reach for the insane bundle of mottled brown-and-white fur circling my calves at high speed.

“Oh my gosh, who is this little guy?” I laugh as the pup places his paws on my thigh to bump noses with me. I hold his little face between my palms and forget my surroundings entirely. “Aren’t you just the sweetest thing ever?”The puppy licks my cheek as if in agreement, and I laugh again.

“And there goes every last minute of office training I’ve been working on with him this month.”

---