* * *
It’s dark after the vigil is over, the center of the square overflowing with flowers and melting candles and tiny little toys that will be snatched up by the garbage collectors as soon as we leave. I’m still not ready to go home yet, not ready to face the silence of my house and another long, lonely stretch of night, so I stay in the square for a little bit longer, sitting on the wrought-iron bench overlooking the fountain.
“Isabelle?”
I twist to the side at the sound of my name, taking in the familiar face of my past. She looks mostly the same, though it’s been years since I’ve seen her, her long, ringlet curls now clipped to her shoulders, their formerly blond color now more of a natural, burnt brown.
“Hey, Kasey.”
“Oh my God,” she says, her eyes bulging at the sight of me before she recovers quickly. “How are you?”
It’s strange sometimes, seeing myself through the eyes of the people who know me. In the mirror, my transformation has been gradual—a daily withering away, like a slow starvation or a decaying body—but to them, I can see the shock of it at once, like a swift slap to the face.
“Oh, you know.” I smile, not bothering with a real answer.
Her expression shifts again, like she’s suddenly remembered who I am, what I’ve been through. She tries one more time, tilting her head and dropping her voice to a whisper as she takes a seat beside me, her hand on my knee.
“How are you holding up?”
The gesture is unexpected, catching me off guard. I look down at her hand, then back at her face.
“As well as can be expected, I think.”
“We all miss you,” she says at last. “So much.”
I bite my cheek, trying to stifle a grimace, because I know that’s not true. I know what they all think of me.
“It’s been seven years,” I say instead, turning to face her. “I’m sure you’ve moved on.”
“God, that long?” she asks. “Time flies, doesn’t it?”
“It sure does.”
“Do you want to grab a drink or something?” she asks, her voice perking up. “I was just on my way to Sky High to meet some of the crew.”
I bite my lip, remembering that restaurant everyone went to after late nights at the office. I haven’t stepped foot in that place since the last time Kasey and I were there together, at The Grit’s annual Christmas party, only two months into my employment.
“Not tonight,” I say, smiling. “Thanks, though.”
“Okay,” she says, standing up slowly. She looks down at me, her face a mixture of pity and concern. “Let me know if you change your mind. It’s an open invitation.”
I watch as she walks away, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her coat. When she reaches the edge of the square, I watch as she stops, like she’s trying to decide if she should turn back around.
Finally, she does, her eyes finding mine in the dark.
“You don’t have to do this alone, you know. It’s okay to ask for help.”
Something about her voice makes me feel like she’s wanted to say that for a long, long time. Like she’s thought about it, churned it around in her mind, only to lose her nerve and file it away for some other, faraway time. I don’t exactly know how to respond to that, so instead I just nod and watch as she smiles at me again, something sad and resigned, before turning back around, her heels still clicking as she makes her way across the street.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
There’s a cold chill in the air now, a sharp bite that causes me to stand up and walk into the cathedral across the street, a towering basilica just past the square with twin pointed arches that seem to jut straight into the stars. I’ve never been religious—even less so now—but it seems like a good place to go at the moment. A good place to sit and think. To formulate a plan.
It’s close to empty inside, a few people sitting, praying, or wandering around the aisles with their necks craned to the ceiling. I can hear the echo of footsteps around me as I take a seat in the back, the old wooden pew groaning against my weight.
Then I exhale, close my eyes.
I can still remember trailing Kasey around the office that very first time, my eyes glassy and bright. Taking in the belongings situated on top of my desk—my desk—and my name, ISABELLE RHETT: LIFESTYLE REPORTER, etched onto the shiny gold nameplate.
“And here,” she had said, opening an office door with a gust of bravado as we reached the pinnacle of her tour, “is the man we have to thank for it all.”