Page 73 of Break My Rules

Iwake back in Oxford with a grim weight in the pit of my stomach. I lay there a moment, still half-sleeping. The house is quiet, the birds are chirping outside the windows, and cool autumn sun falls through the open drapes. Everything is peaceful and perfect—including the man sleeping beside me with a possessive arm slung over my stomach.

Then it hits me. It’s Wren’s birthday.

She would have been thirty-one today.

My heart aches.

I see my phone buzzing softly on the bedside table: it’s my mom, wanting to video chat. I’ve been avoiding talking to her for weeks now, just sending breezy messages about how busy I am with studies, and having so much fun, but I know, today, she’ll need to talk.

I slip out of bed, and into a robe, tip-toeing downstairs to the sunroom. “Hi,” I answer, feeling a pang as her familiar face appears on screen. “You’re up late,” I add, noting the time difference. “Isn’t it midnight there?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” my mom gives me a warm smile, but I can see the sadness in her eyes. “I thought I’d catch you before you got too busy to talk. How are you?”

I swallow, curling up on the couch. “I don’t know yet,” I say truthfully. “It just hit me.”

“Be kind to yourself today,” she says. “The group all tells me it’s important to honor your feelings, don’t just try and push through pretending you’re OK.”

Her grief group. She started attending it after Wren died, and always tells me how helpful it’s been, connecting with other parents who’ve lost their children. I’m glad she has people to talk to. That she isn’t facing this day alone.

“Are you and Dad going to visit her grave today?” I ask. They never found Wren’s body. It was lost to the depts of Lake Michigan, but my parents chose a gravestone at the local cemetery all the same, so they could have somewhere to visit her.

Mom nods. “Then we’re going to plant a tree for her, in the park down the hill. You remember how much you guys loved to play there when you were kids? Well, I talked to the city council, and they approved us planting of a memorial tree for her.”

I jerk a nod, already feeling the sting of tears welling in the back of my throat. “That’s a lovely idea, mom.”

“What about you?” she asks. “You’ve been so busy. I’m glad, it sounds like you’ve been having a wonderful time over there.”

“Right,” I lie, forcing a smile.

“And this man you’ve been dating, it’s still going well?” she asks hopefully.

I nod. “It’s going great.” I haven’t told her half of what’s happened with Saint, just that I’ve been dating someone. “He’s special, mom,” I add, still feeling that lump in my throat. “He’s really been supporting me, with everything about Wren.”

Interrogating his friends. Hunting down the truth.

But my mom doesn’t know just how far Saint’s gone for me. She just thinks we’re having romantic dinners and snuggling together watching movies at night. “Oh, I’m so glad, sweetie,” she exclaims, clearly relieved. “It’s a comfort, knowing you have someone to lean on. And that you’re enjoying your life there, too. I was so worried about you, after it happened. I know that you looked up to her so much, but I’m happy to hear that you’re building a life of your own.”

I swallow hard. What would she think if she knew it was all a lie, that I’m still consumed with Wren’s death, chasing her ghost around this city?

“Is Dad there?” I ask instead, and she smiles.

“Oh no, he nodded off hours ago. He’s hooked on this new show, about a psychic detective, have you seen it…?”

We chat a while longer, about neighborhood gossip and her garden club, before she finally yawns, and says it’s time for her to go to bed. I tell her I love her, and say my goodbyes, but after I hang up, I stay sitting there for a while, watching the birds out in the garden.

She’s healing.

I can see it in the way she talks, how she’s able to share memories and mention Wren without that stricken grief in her eyes. The wound of losing her daughter will never close, but she’s finally found a way to put the pieces of her life together, and keep going, without living in the past.

The way I’m still doing.

There’s a tap on the door, and I look over to find Saint standing there, sleep-ruffled in sweatpants and a T-shirt. "Hey," he says softly, and I can see it in his eyes that he overhead at least a little of the conversation.

“Hey,” I echo.

He sits beside me and puts an arm around my shoulders. I nestle against him, relishing his warm, sturdy embrace. “How’s your mum?” he asks softly.

“She’s doing OK,” I reply, my chest aching. “They’re planting a tree today. For Wren.”