Seven Weeks to Forever (Love / Romance)

Chapter Sixteen

"Maybe you should talk about her."

Riley shrugs and strums a few chords on the guitar.

"Did you love her?" I ask.

He keeps strumming. A minute passes, notes filling the air, and then the music stops. He puts down the guitar pick.

"I knew her for most of my life. So yes, I loved her." He leans the guitar against the side of the chair and then stands up.

I watch him head for the kitchen. I should really quit while I'm ahead, but again, something tells me not to stop.

"Did she know?"

He opens the fridge door. I get up from the sofa and move to a counter stool that's closer to him. He stops rummaging through the fridge and shuts the door again, his hands empty.

"What kind of—" he starts to say, then stops and takes a breath, raking a hand through his hair. "There's a lot I never got to tell her. It doesn't matter now."

"Why do you think it doesn't matter?"

"Why do you think it does?" His eyes are on me now.

"Just because she's gone in body, doesn't mean you can't talk to her."

"Yeah, talking to thin air is exactly what sane people do."

"She's not thin air." He raises an eyebrow at me. "Have you tried talking to her?" I ask.

I watch his lips part like he's about to say something, then he closes his mouth again. A quick check of his energy shows me sparks that are the colors of confusion, grief, and even a bit of anger.

"Enough, okay?" he says after a moment.

"She just seems like she was important to you." I keep my voice quiet and calm, hoping it will soothe his energy. "Saying what you need to say might help, even if you think you're talking to nothing more than air."

I wait for silence. He surprises me, though.

"It sounds like you've thought about this quite a bit." He studies me, looking thoughtful. "Maybe a little too much for an eighteen-year-old."

If he only knew. His energy is settling a bit, so that's good at least. I close my eyes for a moment and try to come up with an answer for him.

"I talk to my parents a lot. It helps me." It sounds plausible, or I think it does.

He pauses. I watch his chest rise as he takes a deep breath, then fall again as he lets it out.

"I forgot," he finally says. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." I smile at him. "It's a normal part of my life, and talking to them makes me happy. I thought maybe it could help you, too."

"Help me how?"

"Let go of the grief." I sense he's about to argue, but he stops himself. The crease across his forehead tells me he's considering what I'm saying. Maybe it even makes sense to him.

The crease vanishes as he seems to come to a decision. "Yeah, well." He shrugs, looking out the window. "This is life, not a dress rehearsal. There's nothing after this."

"What if there is, though?" I insist. What if I know there is, and that this life you think is life is actually nothing compared to what comes next?

"Then what would be the point of this?"

I want to tell him that all of this is about getting ready for the next phase, and that he wouldn't think this way if he could see the things I have. I can't tell him this, though, or at least not in those words. But there are other ways I can put it.