I sighed and hung my head. “Poppy lost her husband. I could have prevented that.”
“I just don’t believe that’s true, and if you would stop to think about it for a minute, you probably wouldn’t either. There’s no guarantee that girl ever would have been sent away. And even if she had been shipped back to California, all it would have taken was a bus ticket to get her back. The only person to blame for that murder is her. Are you hearing me? Her. Not you.”
My throat started to close. “It doesn’t matter. All that matters is Poppy, and I lost her.”
“Then go find her.”
Without another word, Dad stood and let himself out. He left through the front door, but his words stayed, echoing in my living room.
Then go find her.
She’d asked me to leave. She hadn’t called. She wouldn’t want me around. Would she? As the question went unanswered, I pushed myself off the couch and shuffled into the kitchen. Dad’s words were still ringing in my ears.
Then go find her.
I filled a glass of water, chugging it down along with three pain pills.
I wanted to see her, but the truth was, I was scared. I hadn’t stayed away because of some text. I’d stayed away because of my own insecurities—my own jealousy. I’d assumed she was still so in love with Jamie that she’d never see past this horrible coincidence. That she’d never forgive me.
When in reality, I hadn’t given her enough faith.
Poppy had enough love for us both.
Then go find her.
Maybe things really were that simple.
I put my glass in the sink, ignoring the pain in my temples, and jogged to the stairs. Heading straight for the bathroom, I didn’t wait for the water to warm up before I stepped inside the shower. Then I washed away the booze and self-loathing, stepping out clean and ready to find Poppy.
There was no guarantee that she’d forgive me. No guarantee that we’d make it through this together. But I was going to find her and find out. I wasn’t going to let my own issues keep me away for another moment.
I drove to the restaurant first, but since her car wasn’t there, I flipped my truck around and went the opposite direction toward her house. A new For Sale sign was in the yard with a Sold placard already slanted across its front.
What the fuck? She’d sold her house already? I’d been here three days ago and it hadn’t even been listed.
I parked in front of her garage and went to her door, knocking but not expecting an answer. Every window was dark, and inside, I could only see empty rooms. Where was she? Where were her things?
My hand dove into my pocket for my phone. “Shit,” I muttered when it came out empty.
I didn’t have my phone. It was dead somewhere in my house.
Cursing myself for getting so drunk last night, I raced back toward my house, mentally drafting my apology speech once I got my phone charged.
I pulled up to my house, hitting the remote for the garage, but did a double take when I noticed the porch.
Two white rocking chairs—chairs Poppy had sworn she was going to buy after moving in—were placed perfectly in front of the railing.
She’d been here? I scanned the street, looking for her car, but it wasn’t here. Which meant we’d crossed paths. While I’d been searching for her, she’d been here. But why had she left?
Not wasting time by parking in the garage, I left my truck in the driveway and hustled across the snow-covered yard, taking the porch steps two at a time. But the moment my foot landed at the top, I froze.
Leaned against the front door were two books. One I’d never seen before. One I had. It was Jamie Maysen’s journal for his birthday list. And on top of both books was a letter with my name curled in Poppy’s fancy handwriting.
I picked up both books and the letter, not bothering to go inside and get out of the cold, then sat in one of the rocking chairs and started with the letter.
Cole,
Exactly one year ago, I decided to finish Jamie’s birthday list. I was standing in the kitchen at my house and taking a selfie. That’s how this all started. One selfie of me crying in front of a chocolate birthday cake.
I wish I could go back to that day, not to erase this last year, but to tell myself to hold on. To tell myself to keep breathing, because pretty soon, someone special would come into my life and make it easier. I’d tell myself not to cry, because he’d be there to help me finish the birthday list. He’d hold my hand when I needed to borrow some strength. He’d let me cry into his shirt when I couldn’t hold back the tears. He’d make it easy to fall in love again.
Because I do. I love you, Cole. I can prove it too. Do me a favor. Put this letter down and look at the big book. And don’t just flip through it. Really stop and look.
I set down the letter and opened the large book. Except it wasn’t a book—it was a photo album. Poppy had printed out all of her daily pictures and made me this book.
My heart twisted as I stared at the first page. Seeing her first picture hurt. Just as she’d described in the letter, there was Poppy—beautiful, but miserable—standing next to a cake filled with burning candles.
The pages that followed weren’t a lot better. Her blue eyes were dull and her smiles were forced. She looked like a ghost of my Poppy.
I kept flipping, hating every one of these pictures, until I got about halfway through the book and the pain in my chest started to ease. The halfway point was when the photos started to include the restaurant. Poppy’s smiles actually reached
