After Marley leaves, I wander down the beach, which runs for miles under the red clay cliffs. Thick fog is rolling in over the water, cloaking the bluff and seeping between tree trunks. I look up at the old train tracks, and for a second, I want to climb up there and wander back home through the cemetery.

I think about my feet, though. About Marley’s hands bandaging them up. About her urging me to take care of myself. I think about the way she held my hand between hers, pressing it against her heart—and I can’t do something so foolish.

In the end, I walk back to the boardwalk, get my bike (‘the lock code is 1989,’ she texted just after she left), and pedal slowly up the hill, onto the winding sidewalk path, down Main Street, more deserted now at almost ten. I ride and ride, until I’ve pedaled down all the streets downtown. I ride past the spot where Marley fell and I left her my motorcycle pack. I ride up steep Rudolph Hill and look down on the town—as foggy as my mind feels; I can barely see the grain silos. Then back down, past our old high school, where I stop and stare at the brick building.

Fuck, I hated that place. Funny how I didn’t even know it at the time. I had no other benchmark. No comparison. And now I have so many. My hands squeeze the handlebars as I realize the last few weeks have been some of the best I’ve had in years. Since right after we married the first time, maybe.

I remember what I told her—how I’m head fucked right now, and not ready—and I think back on her reply.

“I think that’s the point, though, isn’t it? I mean, it has to be. You need me, and I’m here…”

I’m surprised to find a shimmer in my eyes, blurring the street lights. My throat aches, and my chest does, too. Because she’s right. Goddamn, Marley is right. There is no ready.

And I fucking hate what that means for me. That there’s no barrier to going home and knocking on her door and fucking claiming her. It didn’t work before, but so what? We’re not the same people we were. It might work out now. And if it didn’t, there’s been worse things, many worse things on this earth than trying hard at love and failing.

Fuck. But I won’t fail. I’m not going to fuck this up again.

I laugh, and it’s a choking kind of sound, because my throat is tight, but fucking hell, it’s still a laugh. As I start to pedal again, I see Geneva’s face. I see her biggest grin, the one she only gave for after-bedtime hugs or cookies. That little face that always said, “You’re a hero, Daddy. You’re the best person in the world.”

As I ride back toward Fendall, my eyes are wet because I realize there’s just one person who ever made me feel that way except my little girl, and that person is Marley.

She makes me feel worth it. Like I’m worth the fucking trouble. I’m not throwing that away. I can’t.

I’m lost in my head as I turn onto Stripes. I’m picking up my speed when someone steps in front of my bike, causing me to hit the brakes. The woman sniffs loudly, then mutters something, and I notice, there’s another woman with her. I frown at them, realizing that they’re both wearing dark clothing. One of them is carrying a box. I look around, and I realize there’s a lot of cars on our street. A fucking ton of cars, all parked right by the curb, the line of them going on as far as I can see, down past the cemetery, toward where Marley’s mother lives.

“Sorry.” I give them a nod and keep on pedaling, and then there’s more women in black. A fucking herd of them.

I’m catching bits and pieces of their conversation—enough that I hear the word “dead.”

For reasons I don’t understand, I press my bike’s brakes. “Ma’am. Excuse me.”

They all turn to me—four ladies with puffy, white hair.

“What’s all the commotion? Something happen?”

“Oh yes,” one says, pushing tissue underneath her glasses. “Poor Miss Roberts, Miss Delphina Roberts passed. She fell and hit her head. A brain bleed.”

I can’t speak, can’t even move as blood booms in between my own ears. “Fuck.”

The women gasp.

“Sorry,” I shout as I pedal off.

All I heard at first was “Miss Roberts.” I’m shaking so hard, I can barely ride. But it’s not Marley. It’s not Marley who died. It’s her mother.

* * *

All I want to do is get to her. I know she’s probably at her mom’s, but still, I check our driveway to be sure. I find her car there, so I fly up the stairs and pound her door—and no one answers.

Fuck. That means that someone must have been here waiting when she got back. By herself. Goddammit.

I hurry down the stairs and, with my bike still spinning the grass, I head toward my car. But it’s probably too crowded at the bottom of the hill to park—and I don’t want to roll up on my motorcycle. I go back to the bike. Instead of riding on the sidewalk, I steer into the road, sticking close to the cars along the curb and hoping to fuck that my reflectors work okay. I can’t die before I get to Marley.

As I coast down the hill, I see her mom’s small house is overrun by people: mostly older ladies wearing dark dresses and bearing food. Marley’s mother was hard to get along with—according to her—but I always got the impression she had a lot of friends. Besides, in Fate, when people die, it’s a big deal regardless.

I park my bike under a tree between Mar’s mom’s house and the one next door, and run my hand back through my hair, wishing I had a hat.

But Fuck it. Who cares if I’m spotted?

I elbow my way gently through the crowd in front of the door, drawing stares from several women, one of whom hiss-whispers my name. Then I’m inside, inhaling the stench of cigarette smoke and something good…like maybe cake. My gaze flies around the small family room, but I don’t see Marley.

I move leftward with the crowd of women whispering and crying, toward what ends up being a tiny kitchen—and there’s Marley, standing by the oven with an ashen face. A short woman with spiky, brown and gray hair has her hand on Marley’s arm. When Marley looks up and sees me, she blinks slowly, like she’s waking from a dream. I take a step toward her, and her eyes roll as she collapses.