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"Mom…" she whispers, brushing it away. "Dad…"
Shit.
That choked voice punches me right in the chest. She's thinking about her parents. And everything in me melts.
She lost her mom and dad young. Then she lost her aunt and uncle. Being here might be her last tether to them. And here I am, the guy trying to cut it.
Still, I tell myself I have to do this—for Reed and Dean.
I knock softly on the bedroom door. She glances up and offers a watery smile as she closes the journal.
"Lennon. What can I do for you?"
Come on, man. You can do this. She can't stay.
"Can we talk?" I ask. She nods.
I step inside and sit beside her on the bed. Our old bed. But it's the only place to sit. The room is sparse since we cleared it out—the bed, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and a single rucksack near her feet. No décor. No clutter. Like she's alwaysready to leave. Hopefully back to Aurora, which is a hell of a lot safer than here. For me anyway.
"Sorry to interrupt," I say.
"It's okay." She gives another soft smile. "I was reading my mom's journal. Probably shouldn't be, but…" She sighs, setting it aside. "She was talking about this place again. How magical it was. How much it meant to her and to Daddy."
I snort. "Magical" isn't the word I'd use for San Juan County.
"Was she a romantic?"
She shrugs. "Kind of. I don't remember…" Her face twists in pain. "No matter how hard I try to hold on, I lose a little more of her every year. I remember her eyes, her smile, her dimple—but sometimes I look at pictures and I can't even remember where they were taken. I don't remember her voice anymore."
That hits me. Hard. Because I feel the same way about Georgia.
Time drags her away from me, inch by inch. And I try so damn hard to hold on.
"After my wife died," I say, not even knowing why, "I wanted to join her."
She doesn't flinch. Doesn't judge. She simply listens.
"It was supposed to be our new beginning. I was back from the military. We had our baby. Then, soon afterwards, she died. Pancreatic cancer. We took her in to hospital because she was complaining of tiredness and abdominal pain. Turns out she only had a few days left. Two weeks later, she was gone." I shake my head, smiling through the painful memories. "It felt like a cruel joke. But I couldn't leave Grace behind. I had to keep Georgia alive in memory—for her. So she could remember her mother."
"I'm so sorry," Hailey whispers. "How long's it been?"
"Three years."
She nods slowly. "I think it's beautiful, what you're doing. Keeping her memory alive for your daughter. Like this journal. My aunt kept it for me." She gestures at it. "It's one of the few things I have left of Mom and Dad. It helps. Sometimes."
I nod. She keeps going.
"Sometimes I think I've healed. That I've moved on. Then a song will play, or it'll rain, or someone says something, and it's like it all hits me again—how much I miss them. How I'll never see them again. And now, losing my aunt and uncle too…" She trails off, shaking her head.
"I'm sorry," I tell her quietly. "That must be hard."
She shrugs. "At least I have the memories. I think the pain is the proof that love still lingers. So I've learned not to fight it."
She looks out the window, probably thinking about her lodge.
And right then, I know—I can't send her away. Not when she's carrying pain like that. Not when she's trying to build something out of the pieces of her past.
I hope someday she trusts me enough to share it.