Page 106 of True Blue

Moonstone. The blue in it reminds me of Indie's eyes. Of love. Of loss. It's on a delicate rose gold band because I could picture how gorgeous it looked on Indie's skin tone. Dainty—as Nana would call it—leaves wrap around the band, tiny stones tucked between them.

It's beautiful.

The woman I wanted it for even more so.

Stephanie and Danielle both thought it was perfectly Indie when I showed them the final product. I can't help but picture it on Indie's fingers, but I know it might never get there.

My eyes can't help but gravitate toward the leather-bound book next to my bed. The sketchbook, the insanely nice one that Indie had bought me. I've been using it as a journal of sorts, not really a coherent string of thoughts, more just... fragments that pop into my mind.

The most important are the reminders and goals I have for myself—my plan to be the man Indie deserves. Maybe a bucket list, too.

Go to art school.

Go to therapy.

Talk about the scary stuff, even when it's hard.

Make amends with Stephanie and Danielle, even if it takes your entire life.

Be the man Pop was.

Be a man who Indie could be proud of.

That last one is underlined twice.

I close the ringbox and place it back in the safe, sliding the heavy thing back under my bed.

Then I get up, shower, and eat the sandwich Heath got me from the deli, let them shove me into Heath's car, and drag me to the gym.

I'm weak as hell, so I mostly walk on the treadmill and keep the weights low on the machines. Heath and Luke linger nearby at first, watching me like I might collapse, but once they realize I'm at least steady, they go do their own workouts.

"Remember," Luke says before heading to the squat rack, "depression and heartbreak can't hit a moving target."

The more I walk, the less numb I feel. Not great—not even good. But for a little while, I feel like a person again.

I'm finishing up at the chest press machine when I feel eyes on me. Not uncommon; usually, people look at you to signal they want to use the machine you're on.

I'm finishing up my set when an older man in gym clothes walks over to me, his brow furrowed, and eyes narrowed.

"Are you Theodore Williams?"

Caught off guard, I let the weight stack drop with a clang that echoes through the room. The man doesn't even flinch, just tilts his head as he waits for my answer.

I try to place him, but I can't remember ever meeting him. He looks to be as old as Nana was, with thinning salt-and-pepper hair, a short white beard, and a look on his face that could get me to confess all my wrongdoings.

"Yeah?" I answer.

His expression shifts into irritation.

"Yeah, I thought so—you look just like Ted." He plants his hands on his hips. "Listen, Theodore, I lost my wife two years ago. I understand grief, I do. But we need to settle Eleanor Ambrose's estate, and frankly, I think finally dealing with it might actually help you."

I blink at him.

"Hold on," I say, trying to get my brain to catch up. "I don't know what you're talking about. My Nana's estate?"

He stares at me.

"You haven't gotten any of my messages?"