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Twenty-minutes away from the grocery store, the condensation slipping down the can matches the sweat on my forehead. The humid Wildwood air has my tank top sticking to me in ungodly ways. As I climb yet another hilly sidewalk, the sensation of sweat trickling down my back almost makes me shudder. Not that holding a plastic-wrapped bouquet is helping my cause, so I sit down at a bus stop and set the bouquet beside me.

It doesn’t take long before I’m convinced the shade of the bus shelter combined with the sweet taste of strawberry soda on my tongue is as close to heaven as I’m ever going to get. I let out a dramatic “ah” when I take my last sip.

Knowing this means I have to finish myjourney, I grudgingly walk to the trash can and wrinkle my brow at the papers taped to the side.

Spacious studio.

Prime location in the Highlands.

WiFi included.

Bad credit ok.

If bad credit means no credit at all, I’m a shoo in.

Granted, there are probably better places to find prospective apartments than an ad on the side of a bus stop trashcan. But beggars can’t be choosers, and I could use a miracle right now. I tear one of the slips at the bottom of the flyer free and tuck it into my bra with the rest of my money.

There’s a bounce in my step as I walk the rest of the way to the graveyard.

Today’s the first day I left the house by myself. I have a new favorite drink. And now I might have a lead on a place to stay. I’ll iron out the details later. Like the hundred-dollar application fee, my ID and whatever else the flyer said I would need.

For now, I let hope take root in my chest and bloom for the first time in a long time.

I don’t have to figure it all out today.

When I get to where I’m going, the sun is fading fast as the iron gate in front of me beckons me closer.

Wildwood Acres.

A neighborhood so grand it deserves its own area code, apparently. I’d never understood the fuss. As far as I could tell from the two times I’d been in the car when my dad came here, it was all big houses with no signs of personality. Just the type of wealth my father had deluded himself into thinking he’d attain.

It makes sense it’s the place he chose to be buried fifteen years ago, according to Weston.

I’m only standing ducked off behind a bush to catch my breath for a beat before we get action at the gate.

It’s a little too easy to sneak in behind a black SUV when the attendant isn’t looking.

Golden hour has an ethereal haze settled over the graveyard.

It toes the line between haunting and beautiful as I zigzag between the plots to get to my father’s final resting place.

His grave is easy to find. It’s the only one without a headstone and that won’t be changing soon. He can thank himself for that.

I fling the flowers angrily at his plot and right away, I’m looking around to check if anybody witnessed my disrespect.

It’s funny how I’m still preoccupied with doing the respectful thing even when he isn’t here.

I hate that I still want to maintain appearances when that was something he never bothered himself with.

In a squat, I start plucking the overgrown grass around my bouquet. Just to give my fingers something to do.

I’m there long enough for the sun to make her exit and the light posts lining the path to flicker on. But I don’t get up. There’s something comforting about being here.

I have no money. No plan besides finding my way back home. But there’s peace in knowing he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. And that he’ll be there for eternity. Feeding the worms and looking up at me from the pits of hell. I can’t put my finger on it, but I have a feeling that everything is going to work out. It’s pure delusion if I say it out loud, but whatever.

Maybe my father and I have that trait in common.

I’m about to get up when a deep voice behind me asks, “How long has it been?”