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They’re still tied, tethered to the land my mom grew up on. Tied to the memory of her waxing on about how she wanted my kids to someday run through the fields of wildflowers just like I had, and she did before me. A dream that is only nostalgic because the dream was hers.
It’s still for sale now. No one seems to want a house and land in Wyoming, not even the people who are mad I’m not keeping it. I don’t blame them; I don’t know if I’d keep it, even if I had the choice, if I’m being honest.
“Have you ever heard the story of the Star Thrower?” Roman asks, dragging me from my thoughts as he squats next to me.
“No.” I blink at him in surprise. He hasn’t been one to tell me much of anything, much less a story, and I find myself hanging on his every word as he starts to speak.
“One day, an old man who used to write by the sea went out for a walk on the beach after a storm and saw thousands of sea stars washed up on the shore overnight. Down the beach, he saw a kid, and when he got closer, he realized the boy was tossing the sea stars back into the ocean one at a time, over and over. The old man asked him what he was doing, and he told him, ‘I’m throwing them back into the ocean before the sun gets too hot and they die.’ The old man told him, ‘There are thousands of sea stars. You’re never going to make a difference.’ The boy picked up one more star and threw it into the water, then looked at the old man, telling him, ‘I made a difference to that one.’”
“Are you the old man or the kid in that story?” I ask him quietly, and he moves his gaze to mine.
“The old man.”
5
ELORA
45°52′55″N 123°57′34″W
Lying in the sand with my eyes on the stars above me and my hand wrapped around a bottle of Rosé, I listen to a song playing through the stereo someone brought with them to the beach. Country music is not normally my thing, but the lyrics about a guy’s obsession with no one touching his truck are catchy enough to remember after one round of the chorus. I lean up on my elbow and lift the bottle to take a sip of wine, spilling some down my chin and chest when a figure appears like a shadow, startling me.
“How drunk are you?” Roman asks, looking at me, seemingly upside down from this position. It’s not too difficult to make out his handsome features. Even though the bonfires littering the beach are all far away, the moon is so bright it casts a glow on everything it touches.
“Not as drunk as you were the other night.” I sit up and hear him either scoff or laugh as I twist and turn the bottle of wine in the sand. When I know it won’t tip over, I wrap my arms around my bent knees.
I let out a long sigh when he sits in the sand next to me. Earlier today, he vanished after telling me the story of the Star Thrower, something I’m starting to see is a habit of his. Popping up, boggling my mind, then disappearing into thin air like he was nothing more than a figment of my imagination.
“Why are you drinking?” he asks quietly, and I glance over at him.
“Do I need a reason?”
“You have a whole bottle of wine.”
“I live in a hotel room. I don’t exactly have a place to keep my crystal glasses, fine china, or silver.” When he laughs heartily, the sound buzzes through my system, making me dizzier than the wine I’ve drank. “Why are you out here?”
“I needed some fresh air.”
“There is a lot of beach available for your use.” I wave my arm out before us.
“You don’t want my company?”
“I just don’t see the point.” I shrug, reaching for the bottle. Putting it to my lips, I tip it back and gulp down a mouthful.
“What does that mean?” he asks.
Placing the bottle back in the sand, I look over at him. “You’ve been all too willing to ask me questions but haven’t told me anything about yourself except that you’re from New York. Things with you are lopsided, and I don’t like how that feels.”
“You know my brother died.” His voice cuts through the silence after a long moment, and my heart skydives into my stomach as he locks his eyes on mine. “Right?” He knows somehow. He knows I saw his brother’s obituary. Was he awake?
“I know,” I confirm in a whisper, and he nods.
“He overdosed. He went from being the life of the party to being on life support.” The pain in his voice causes my rib cage to clench tight around my heart. “I fought my family for months to have him taken off it. He wasn’t there, and if he had been, he would have fucking hated being stuck in that bed, hooked up to those machines.” I squeeze my eyes closed. “The day after his funeral, I got in my car and started driving. I didn’t stop until I hit the opposite coast.” His voice drops to a quiet whisper. “Val would have hated it here.” His laugh is hollow.
“Why?”
“It’s too quiet, and with nothing to do, it would have given him too much time to think.”
“Is that how you feel?”
