Page 114 of The Bad Girl List

The spring evening is chill, my breath lightly frosting the air. It’s almost completely black beneath the large oak tree where I stand with Tequila.

I grew up learning about the cycles of the earth from Uncle Theo. It seems only natural that I apply the principles of biodynamic farming to my current task. The moon is descending, meaning the earth is entering its more active state.

I shove the head of a large shovel into the earth. Roots pop and crack as I lever out the first mound of damp earth.

Tequila sits to one side, her head resting on her paws as she watches me. I continue to plunge the shovel into the ground, digging a deep hole under the oak tree in our vineyard.

Elle and I used to come to this tree to watch the sunset. It’s only a short walk from the bungalow. I can’t help but think she would approve of this spot for what I have planned.

I dig until a large hole is in front of me. Then I lean the shovel against the tree and pick up a box from the ground. Kneeling, I open the box.

Tequila yips.

“It’s okay, girl,” I say, rubbing her on the head. “It’s time.”

I take out the contents of the box. On top is the engagement announcement for me and Elle. We stand in a field of mustard flowers, holding hands with smiles that seem to stretch all the way to the sun.

I drop the announcement into the hole.

Next goes in a stack of love letters from college. We used to write to each other the old fashioned way, with pen and paper, and slip the notes under one another’s dorm room door.

Next is a stack of photos, pictures of all the things Elle and I had done together. Hikes. Family dinners. Trips. Nights out on the town.

One by one, I look at each of them before dropping them into the hole. A picture of Elle taking a shot at Zeke’s on her twenty-first birthday with me giving her bunny ears. A picture of us drinking from coconuts on a trip to Mexico. Another snapshot of us at dinner in front of my parents’ fireplace.

And after the pictures are the wedding invitations. Elle had ordered samples from a dozen different vendors, determined to find the perfect card for our big day. Our names are printed across all the samples. I added those to the hole, too.

Last to go inside were the rings, the ones we never had a chance to wear. Hers was a platinum band with a single solitaire, princess cut. Mine was plain platinum. Our names and the date of our wedding is engraved on the inside.

Reverently, I set the rings inside the hole atop the pictures and other mementos. I sit there for a long time, just staring at the memories and letting myself feel the enormity of her loss.

“I miss you, Elle,” I say aloud, looking down at the bundle of keepsakes. “You will always have a special place in my heart. But I can’t move forward with my life if I’m hanging onto the past. I need to let you go.”

Tears sting the back of my eyes. Instead of choking them back like I usually do, I let them fall. It’s time to let everything go, including the grief I’ve carried for the past two years.

I climb to my feet and retrieve the shovel. Slowly, reverently, I scoop dirt over the hole. I bury the things I have been hanging onto.

The earth will hold the memory of our time together. It will compost the mementos so something new can grow. That’s the principle of biodynamic farming. Everything must be returned to the earth so a new cycle can begin.

When I’m finished, I use the back of the shovel to tamp down the dirt. I lean against it, letting the last few tears leak out of my eyes.

“Goodbye, Elle,” I whisper.

I prop the shovel on my shoulder and pick up the empty box. “Come on, Tequila. It’s time to go home.”

As I turn to leave, something catches my eye. Something is moving on the ground near the hole. What is it?

I squint through the darkness, studying the shape. It abruptly comes into focus.

It’s a tiny blue butterfly. Not one, but four of them, just like the tattoo on Dominique’s hip. They flutter over the freshly buried hole, their iridescent wings catching a few stray beams of moonlight.

Butterflies are never out at night. They are creatures of sunshine and daylight.

Yet here they are, fluttering over the grave where I released my ties to Elle.

And I know, without a doubt, that my dead fiancée is not reaching back from the grave to slap me. That was my own guilt that had been speaking, not Elle.

She’s come back tonight. She’s come to tell me goodbye.

---