Page 152 of Find My Way Down to You

Marigolds.

After one more squeeze, I exhale. “I saw London’s parents. By accident.”

Her head tilts, curious. “Around the city?”

“No.” My pulse drums against the back of my jaw. “At his grave.”

I visit him regularly now. At least once a week. The first time, I asked Max to come. Since then, I go alone. I like the privacy, a chance to be with just him and my ever-flowing thoughts.

I sit on the grass in front of his headstone. Talk to him as if he was there. Green-eyed, weird smile.

Rebecca nods along. “How did you feel when you saw them?”

A beat passes. I shrug weakly. “Surprised.” I’m not surewhy. Of course they would visit their son’s grave. But it wasn’t just that.

They were together. Holding hands. The warm thrill of it caught me off guard. London had feared they would get divorced. That his leaving for college would be the breeze that swept away the last grains of their marriage.

It didn’t happen.

Instead, his death kept them together. Grief is easier when there’s someone with you fighting the waves. It’s something I wish I’d learned earlier.

“No, I mean,” I say, shaking my head, “I felt…good.”

On every visit, I bring London marigolds. Sometimes a bouquet, sometimes just one flower. His mom noticed. She drew me into her arms, grateful tears dampening my shoulder. She didn’t hate me for what happened to him. Neither of them did.

It was a relief as bright as the first rays of summer.

Now I blink away the sting in my eyes.

So far, I’ve only cried once in our sessions. That first appointment. It was my biggest worry. That a stranger would see me as fragile, pathetic. That I was voluntarily allowing someone to judge whether my pain was earned or not.

But Rebecca hasn’t been like that. She expects nothing from me. It makes it easier to give what I want.

She makes a note in her journal. “Did they ask to see you again?”

My fingers tighten around the ball. “Yes.”

“Do you want to?” Before I can answer, she says, “You don’t have to. You’re not on anyone’s timeline, August.”

“I know.” Mostly.

Her dark eyebrows climb her forehead. She has pale white skin. A spill of freckles across her nose and cheeks.

“I’m not ready,” I say.

“Did you tell them?”

There’s no hesitation this time. I nod.

“And did they understand?”

The ball almost slips from my sweaty hand. Rebecca doesn’t comment. I’ve done better at tempering my anger. She encourages me to let it out while we’re together. To stop trying to cage the things that need to run wild.

“They came around,” I confess.

“And are you okay with that?”

Our sessions have taught me something: Moving on doesn’t mean forgetting. I can go forward with my life andchoosewhat parts of the past I want to take with me. Like my memories of London. The things he taught me about myself. And the relationships I made because of him.