Time: Something I thought Ian and I had plenty of. Only it ran out long before it was supposed to, leaving me with only his memory.
“I’m sorry,” I tell them. “I can’t. I hate that you came all this way…”
“We flew in with our parents. Dad had some business with the gym before we go,” Georgia says.
“Next time,” I offer, my tone holding no conviction.
“Okay.” Lexi sighs, pulling me in for a hug. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” I tell her, before I give Georgia a hug. “Have fun.”
As they’re walking out the door, my mom walks in. She gives them each a hug and tells them to have a good time. And then we’re alone.
She doesn’t say anything at first, just walks over to the balcony where I was sitting and picks up the worn-out paper. “How many of these have you written?” she asks, holding it up.
“None.”
Her eyes widen briefly. “But I’ve seen you…”
“That’s all I’ve written.” I nod toward the paper, my throat filling back up with unshed emotion. I hate that all I do is cry. And when I finally get myself composed, I cry again.
“Oh, Micaela.” Mom drops the letter on my bed and pulls me into her embrace. “I hate to see you like this, my sweet girl.” My face falls against her chest and I let out a choked sob. “I miss you so much,” she murmurs while I cry into her shirt. “It’s time, sweetie. Time to move forward. You deserve to have a life.”
“I don’t know how to get past this,” I admit. “My heart… It hurts, Mom.” Tremors rack my body, and my mom holds me tighter. “I feel like I’m frozen in place to fifteen months ago, on Christmas morning when I found out Ian died. Everything I do or think reminds me of him, of us.” I sniffle. “We had plans, and now…” I hiccup. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I feel so lost. He was supposed to be my forever.”
Mom pulls back slightly and looks into my eyes. “You take it one day at a time. One step a day. It’s all you can do. But you have to actually move forward.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Only you can figure that out,” she says. “You’re the one grieving. But sitting in this room, avoiding life, isn’t the answer.” She kisses my forehead. “I’m heading to the rec center. Would you like to join me?” My parents help run a recreational center that was created to keep kids off the streets. My grandparents started it because my dad used to be one of those kids.
I shake my head. “I just…”
“I know.” She nods, a frown marring her face. “You want to be alone.” The way she says the words has my stomach churning. My grieving is not only affecting me, but is also affecting my family. Sure, they give me my space, but they also take turns checking on me every day. Even my aunts and uncles have started to join in the rotation.
My mom gives my arm a squeeze and then walks out. Taking the paper from the bed, I sit on the balcony and stare at it. My mom is right. Only I can move forward, and sitting here in this room day after day, trying to write a letter I can’t write isn’t helping. What’s that saying? The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results. I need to try something new. I can’t keep living like this. It’s breaking my parents’ hearts.
But where would I go? Cabo is out of the question. I need to go somewhere I haven’t been with Ian. A place I can focus on healing and moving forward. Maybe even make a new plan. My stomach knots. The only plan I want is one that includes Ian. Only that’s never going to happen.
Where can I go?
And then an idea hits me. I know just the place.
After packing my stuff into a small suitcase, I grab a new piece of paper and write a note to my parents to let them know I had to get away. I need time to myself to move forward. I let them know not to worry, but I don’t tell them where I’m going. If I do, they’ll send someone to check on me, and right now I just need some time to heal. To figure out a way to move forward.
Since my car is relatively new—given to me by my parents a few years ago for my sixteenth birthday—I decide to make the drive. It’s four hours to our beach house in Venice, California, but it will do me some good. The best kind of thinking happens in the car, with the windows rolled down and the music blasting. I stop once for a coffee and again at the grocery store to pick up some groceries, since the place will be empty.
My parents bought the beach house years ago, since they travel to LA often for UFC competitions, as well as to visit my aunt and uncle. Both my parents are retired UFC fighters and own a UFC training facility they took over from my grandpa called Cooper’s Fight Club. Since we rarely come here, I’ve never been here with Ian.
I arrive close to nine o’clock at night. It’s the first time I’ll be here alone, but it’s in a good neighborhood, on the water, and has an alarm system, so I know I’m safe. I park in the driveway and gather my stuff. As I’m walking to the front door, with my luggage in one hand and the bags of groceries in the other, my cell phone rings. I’m sure it’s my parents. They’re probably now seeing the note I left and wondering where I am. Balancing the bags and luggage, I insert the key into the door and twist it open. With my foot, I kick the door open, preparing to shut the alarm off. Only it doesn’t go off.
Hmm… That’s weird.
I step into the house and notice a light is on. My heart beats erratically in my chest. Is someone here? I haven’t heard my parents mention renting the place out. But then again, I haven’t really been paying attention. I’m about to step back outside and call my parents, when a massive shadow makes an appearance. I step backward, preparing to run, when the figure grows larger. A huge muscled man appears and, without thinking, I let out a cringe-worthy shriek. My bags fall from my hands, and my luggage tips over. I twirl around to flee, but the door has closed on its own and I run directly into it, my forehead smashing into the hard wood.
My brain goes fuzzy, stars lighting up behind my lids. I stumble back slightly, my head throbbing in pain. A strong hand grips my wrist, and it’s then I remember… there’s someone here.
“Let go of me!” I scream, yanking my hand away and preparing, again, to flee.
“Whoa, calm down,” the masculine voice says.
Figuring it’s best to know what the face of my attacker looks like, I swivel around, only to come face-to-face with Ryan Cruz.
“Ryan? What are you doing here?” I ask, confused as to why he’s here, in my family’s beach house. The last I heard he was in the military and stationed overseas.
“I’m on vacation,” he says, his voice as strong as his grip, which is still holding on to my wrist.
“Here?” As I pull my wrist away, this time successfully releasing myself from his grasp, I take a moment to take him in. He’s a good foot taller than my five-foot-two self, dressed in only a pair of camouflage sweatpants, which are hanging low on his hips. Without a shirt on, his entire body is on display. From his hard pecs that are covered in various tattoos, to his chiseled abs, all the way to the well-defined V that disappears into the front of his pants, the man screams sex and—