Page 144 of Lost Lyrebird

God, I want to kiss her right then—kiss that bratty defiance off her mouth and make her believe me.But I hold myself back.

“I guess we’ll see when I get back,” I murmur, as I raise my hand again and rub my thumb over her cheekbone.I study her face one last time, hoping this memory and all the ones we shared will hold me over until I can come back to her.

The dream breaks into wisps of smoke.Pain floods in with its absence, and I wake in the graveyard to something tickling my nose.The sun is high above me, and the ground is wet beneath.The dew has soaked into my jeans.

I groan as I try to brush the offending feather tickling my nose away.

A bird squawking startles me, and I tilt my head up to see a crow perched on my father’s headstone.It takes a couple of steps across the top, turns, and looks at me.When I sit up, it squawks angrily again and takes flight.It soars higher and higher into the clear blue and bright sky.

I hiss from the pain the brightness causes, and hold up my hand to shield my eyes.

It’s not until I set my hand back down that I notice the black feather on the ground next to me.I pick it up, dumbfounded, and stare at it for a moment.I raise it to my face and spin it between my fingers by the quill tip.

Under the direct sunlight and at different angles, the feather’s dull gray-black color changes.It shimmers with a rainbow of iridescent colors—bronze, deep blue, purple, and green.Colors you’d never see unless you add light.

My mind latches onto those colors and immediately goes to Lily dancing under a variety of spotlights.The acts, the music, the costumes.

My colorful and talented girl, so much like an exotic bird.She shows me what she wants me to see.Not just me.Everyone only sees what she wants them to see.

Because she’s a performer.Not just a dancer, but an actress putting on a show.

I sit with that thought for a moment.

Maybe studying the past isn’t the answer.Maybe studying who she is now, is.

The face from my dream comes back to me when I reach for it.It’s nothing but a flash of memory, but it’s enough.Although her features have changed slightly with maturity, her eyes remain the same.The same forget-me-not blue with a honey yellow hue around her irises.

It’s the one thing I’m certain of, and for now, it’s enough.

My gun is lying beside me, and as I stand, I pick it up.I lift the back of my shirt and tuck the weapon back into my waistband.

I take a moment to rub the sleep from my eyes.The pressure and piercing pain bouncing around inside my skull are back.

I’m about to turn and walk away when a gleam catches my eye.The sun hits the sobriety coin at just the right angle, so that it momentarily blinds me.Under the bright sunlight, it appears new and shiny, a brilliant gold.Like the day it was first given to me.I stare at it and the compass for a long time.The arrow of the compass is pointing toward the coin.Then I look down at the colorful feather in my left hand.

I asked for a fucking sign.If this isn’t it, I don’t know what is.

Something about that hits me hard, and the breakdown I’ve held at bay crashes over me.It’s an emotional floodgate that bursts, and with it, I lose all composure.Tears brim in my eyes and spill down my cheeks.Using the headstone to steady myself, the grief, despair, and frustration pour freely out of me.

I’m a mess when the floodgates finally close, or at least my shirt is since I’ve used it to dry my face.

I stare at the items on the gravestone and my father’s name for a few moments before I knock on the headstone in acknowledgement and to cement my new vow to my father to try again.To give sobriety another shot.

I gently pick up the coin and the compass, and slide both into my pants pocket.And even though it makes me feel like a sentimental fool, I tuck the feather behind my ear and leave with this innate feeling that it’s not just my father watching over me anymore.That maybe Ben is too, and with them both on my side, looking out for me, I might just have a better chance of figuring out how to survive this.

To myself, I make a separate promise: not to come back here and do what I did last night.

Lose hope.

CHAPTER 42

Her burden heavy, her wings broken, it was no mystery why she never learned to fly.

MARCH 2008

I exitWet Tipsinto the warm, sticky night.A thin sheen of sweat instantly forms on my overheated skin.I stayed late to get some private time on the stage.There’s a new routine I’ve been dying to practice, but with it being the beginning of spring, the local studio is in comp season, and dance rooms are harder to come by.

In the parking lot, the streetlights cast long shadows.I pause, taking a cautious look around before quietly shutting the door behind me.