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“I won’t.”
And then, as the sun sinks beneath the surface and the ocean and the dark swallow the world, I sit under the whistling pines, and I listen to the wind blowing through the branches, I breathe in the salt and the stars, and I feel the scratch of the sand over my legs, and I think about loving and leaving and losing and then loving again, because that’s what we do.
I fall asleep, my cheek pressed into the cool sand, the ocean breeze stroking over me, the crash of the water a lullaby. In my dreams, inside this dream, I hear Aaron’s voice?—
If you ever need me, if you ever find yourself awake at night wanting me, I’ll be here. I’ll be here loving you.
“You said you’d let me go.”
I lied. I’ll be here, my hand held out to you. All you have to do is take it.
I hold out my hand.
He isn’t there.
49
I wrenchout of the dream and back into Geneva with jarring finality. For long minutes I pant in the middle of my bed, my head spinning, heart pounding. The dry, cold air of my bedroom and the icy draft from the frosted window tug at me and yank me back to the here and now.
I’m in Geneva.
It’s winter.
I’m alone.
There’s a hollow ache, a deep hole in my chest where memories echo. I press my hand to my warm flannel pajamas and settle my palm over my heart. I feel the steady rhythm, and for a moment I’m surprised my heart’s still beating. But it is. I’m here, still living. Still breathing. If someone were to ask me, “Fi, what’s wrong?” what could I say? The man I’m desperately in love with is real and he died two years ago. His whole family and all the people I loved died with him. And I only just found out he existed at all. I only just found out they’re gone.
I had four more months with him and I willingly turned away and set him aside. I foolishly thought I had all the time in the world. That if I wanted, I could someday pick up the watch and dream of him again, just for a night or an hour. I thought he would be there forever. An eternity in a single moment. Being an expert in time, I should’ve realized, the only thing in life we can be sure of is that time moves on, and if you don’t reach out and hold onto what you love, then its time may have passed forever.
Aaron said the tears of regret are worse than the tears of sorrow. I regret leaving him. I regret not realizing he was real sooner. I regret not learning about Christmas Eve sooner.
I shiver at the icy temperature. At my regrets. Outside my window the sky is a brilliant, bright winter-blue—the cloudless kind only seen on days when the temperature is below freezing. It’s the sort of winter day where the second you step into the ice-coated snow your nose pinches, your cheeks burn, and your fingers lose all feeling. It’s exactly the type of day where Mila and I stay inside, cuddle under a soft wool blanket by the fire, and drink hot cocoa while watching a Christmas movie.
That’s not what we’ll be doing today.
It’s the day before Christmas Eve.
There’s the gala to prepare for.
And there’s ... my dreams.
I throw the duvet off my legs, ignore the memory of lavender spritzed on the sheets, and instead jump down to the cold wood floor. I clutch the warm case of the pocket watch, not willing to let it go.
The second hand has stopped. All movement has stopped.
But does that mean the watch has stopped for good?
That everyone is truly gone?
This June, when I first dreamed of Aaron, it was June on the island. Two years ago exactly. We flowed parallel, our realities. My mountain-strawberry June for their ripe-mango June. My gentle, lake-breeze July for their humid, salt-scented July. My winery and last-days-of-summer August for their beach-bonfires-and-sunlit-coves August.
We ran parallel for months.
Last night it was December 23 on the island—of this year.
Somehow I hit the wrong time.
I need to go back two years.
