Later, as Harlow helps Whitney onto the train platform, and she turns around to look at him with sparkling eyes, I feel a surprising pang of longing and loss.
Or perhaps it isn’t that surprising.
I know that Monica and I shared something I’ve never felt for anyone before. But that doesn’t mean it can last, like Harlow and Whitney or Jensen and Riley. There’s no way it could be the real thing.
Could it?
I’m quiet during the train ride back, although everyone else’s mood is boisterous and happy. Whitney takes time out from discussing wedding plans with Riley to ask, “Hey Ramsey, you okay?”
“Yes, of course,” I tell her. “I just don’t have much to contribute in the way of details about flowers or decorations.”
“But you’ll play the guitar for the ceremony, right?” she asks.
“Sure.”
“Oh good. I need to steal that element from Jensen and Riley’s wedding. It was beautiful.”
“Thanks.”
I smile at her, and turn back to my thoughts of Monica once Whitney and Riley start discussing catering options.
When we get back to Albuquerque, I say goodbye to Riley and Whitney— neither of whom I’ll see again for six months— before they drive Mom home. I’ll say goodbye to her tomorrow morning before I leave.
And then there’s only one thing left for Jensen, Harlow and I to do before tomorrow arrives. We go to my dad’s gravesite.
His tombstone is a bit dusty, so we sweep it off until we can read the words on his headstone clearly:
James Bradford:
Devoted Father and Beloved Friend.
Then we prop up a wreath we brought, made out of blue and white flowers— his favorite color was blue. I know that the flowers will wilt and die long before I’m here again, but it comforts me to imagine that Dad knows we visit him and that we’re thinking of him.
“Dad,” I say, always the ringleader in these sorts of things. “Harlow and I are going back to Afghanistan tomorrow, but only for six months. We’ll be back soon.”
“And we have something to celebrate,” Harlow adds. “Whitney and I are engaged.”
“Can you believe it?” asks Jensen. “Two of your three sons, tied to an old ball and chain.”
There’s an awkward silence. The mood isn’t as jovial as it was at the restaurant or on the train. I guess we’re all thinking of saying, “Don’t worry, Dad. It’ll turn out okay.”
No one wants to be reminded of how it didn’t work out for Dad— how I’m the only one with the guarantee of escaping heartache. Or at least, as far as they know.
“Okay, Ramsey, do you want to play the song now?” Jensen asks.
“Sure.”
I pick up my guitar and play the song I wrote for Dad, which is something that’s quickly becoming a tradition when the three of us gather at Dad’s gravesite.
I always wanted to say goodbye.
But how can I do that when I can’t let go?
I never wanted to say goodbye.
Because you’re still with me, wherever I go.
When I finish playing, the lyrics haunt me. I wrote them for Dad— before I even knew Monica— but now they’ve taken on a new, additional meaning, involving her.
“Well, I’m going to go ahead and get home,” Jensen says, nodding towards his bike. “I’ll come pick you both up in Riley’s car tomorrow morning, and drive you to the base.”
“Sounds great, thanks,” Harlow says. He lingers near the grave, his foot kicking up a little bit of grass, and I can sense that he’d like some alone time with Dad. I guess he has some things to discuss in private.
“See you in the morning,” I say, hugging him.
“Night.”
I walk back to my Jeep, and turn the engine on. The Just For One Weekend soundtrack that Monica made me starts blasting right away, and it happens to be randomly playing “Under the Bridge.”
At least I have the love of a damn fine city like Albuquerque, I think to myself. But the city really is my only companion.
And whose fault is that? I ask myself.
I sit in the Jeep while the sun sets, until I see Harlow head to his car, on the other side of the parking lot. If he notices me still sitting here, he doesn’t acknowledge me, and I’m grateful for that.
Once I see him drive away, I turn off the Jeep and walk back down to Dad’s gravesite.
“I wanted to ask you something, Dad, before I leave. I mean, even though I know you’re always with me, everywhere, I wanted to tell you here at your gravesite,” I say out loud. “I know that you and Mom had a bad ending, but a good start. You were in love with her, and you always did everything you could to let her and everyone else know.”
I pause.
I can almost hear my dad’s voice, see his kind eyes.
What’s your question, Son?
“I used to think you were weak for loving her so much,” I tell him. “I didn’t really understand. But now I see it was what you lived your life for. Mom, and us, gave you purpose and meaning. And that’s more than a lot of people have in their lifetime. So I guess my question is…”
Yes?
“How did you know it was real love? How did you know it was worth risking— and enduring— heartache for?”
There’s silence, of course. I didn’t really expect my dad to be able to answer.
But I already know the answer, just as clearly as if he was saying it to me sout loud.
When it’s real, you just know it. You just feel it. And you can’t fight it, no matter how hard you try.