Brynn

 

“Brynn! Over here!”

I look up to see Jem’s twin, Hope, waving at me from baggage claim as I descend the escalator at the Bangor airport. She has the same cheekbones as Jem, the same aqua eyes, the same unruly golden-blonde hair that tumbles over her shoulders in sun-kissed waves. Her easy smile, so much like her brother’s, makes my heart clutch.

I hope that coming here isn’t a giant mistake that will set me back in my progress toward normalcy. Then again, I reason, I’m living like a hermit with only my cat for company. There isn’t much space in which to backslide.

“You’re here,” she says with a smile.

Hay-uh.

“Hope,” I say as I step from the escalator and into her arms, “it’s so good to see you!”

As she hugs me, tears spring to my eyes. Useless.

When she leans back, her smile has faded. “You’re skin and bones, Brynn.”

I shrug. “It’s the dead-fiancé diet.”

She cringes, jerking away from me, a shocked gasp escaping from her lips.

Fuck.

“I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head frantically. “I’m so sorry, Hope. I don’t know why I said that. Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m not fit to be around people. God, Hope. I am so, so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she murmurs, though my thoughtless words have erased her smile completely. She takes a deep breath. “Any checked bags to pick up?”

“No.”

“Then, um, let’s head to the car, huh?”

I want to say something to make it all better as we walk in silence toward the parking garage, but nothing can take back my thoughtless words, and besides, I don’t really want to whitewash the way I feel. Not with Hope.

Jem’s gone. I know this. I know he’s never coming back. But sometimes my sadness and my anger still feel as hard as ice; that’s how I saw them for a long time, in fact. Sadness and anger, an infinitely wide, infinitely thick casing of frost around my heart. Many days, I didn’t know how my heart kept beating. And there were days, I’m ashamed to admit now, I just wished it would stop.

But it kept throbbing with life, like it knew that someday the ice would melt. I both dread and welcome the idea of that day. Loving someone new will hold such immeasurable risk for me—how could I bear losing someone all over again?—but living like this for the rest of my life? In a constant state of grief? It’s the only thought more unbearable than moving on. Because this isn’t living. This is barely existing. And since I found Jem’s phone again, I’ve started to wonder if maybe I’m ready to start living again.

“I’m over here,” says Hope, pointing to a black SUV. She pops the trunk, and I lift my rolling bag into the back.

“Hope,” I say, placing my hand on her arm after closing the hatch. “I’m truly sorry.”

“I know,” she says, giving me a half smile, half grimace. While searching my eyes, she covers my hand with hers. “I haven’t seen you since he was alive. You look a lot different, Brynn. You sound different too.”

The words sting, but she’s right. That’s the thing about losing someone you loved as much as I loved Jem: I can never be the person I was before. Never. I’m still trying to figure out who exactly I’ve become.

I take a deep breath. “I’m hoping this trip will help.”

Hope’s eyes brighten a touch. “He would’ve loved it, you know—climbing Katahdin with you, sharing it with you.”

“I know,” I whisper, gulping over the lump in my throat.

“Come on,” she says, her hand slipping from my arm. “Let’s get you back to my place, and we can talk about the best way to get you to the top.”

For most of the plane ride to Maine, I read about Mount Katahdin in a tour book of New England I’d purchased in San Francisco.

Katahdin, named by Native Americans, means “the greatest mountain,” and for Jem nothing could have been closer to the truth. He’d climbed it the first time when he was ten, and if I asked Hope, she’d have no idea how many times he’d climbed it after that, because he’d practically lived there. During high school summers, he made money as a guide, leading hikes up and down the granite face almost every weekend and on weekdays for church groups and summer camps.

Hope buckles her seat belt, and I do the same, turning to her.

“What do you think about me trying the Knife Edge?”

She had shifted into reverse, but as she jerks her head to face me with a shocked expression, she pushes the gearshift back into park. “I’d ask if you have a death wish.”

Jem’s favorite way to summit the mountain was on a trail called the Knife Edge. And yes, parts of the trail were only three feet wide, with a steep drop-off on either side. And yes, the trail had claimed twenty-three lives over the past five decades. But I am here. And I am desperate to walk as closely in Jem’s footsteps as possible.

“Have you done it?”

She nods, her face stony. “Yes.”

“Then why can’t I?”

Hope turns away from me and backs out of the parking space. “Because, like my brother, I’ve been climbing Katahdin since I was ten.”

“I did some challenging climbs with Jem,” I say. “He took me to Yosemite every other weekend. I climbed Glacier Point.”

“Via the Four Mile Trail?”

“Yeah.”

“Right. That’s a strenuous trail to a peak under a thousand meters high.”

“And . . .?”

“What comes after strenuous on a trail rating?”

“Very strenuous.”

“Uh-huh. Then what?”

“Um . . .,” I hum, trying to remember. “Very, very strenuous?”

Hope rolls her eyes, then pays the garage attendant and drives into the night. “Do you know what the Knife Edge is rated?”

No. But I feel like I’m about to get an earful.

“Bat-shit crazy,” says Hope, stopping at a red light and turning to look at me with irritation and worry. “That’s what it’s rated. It’s only recommended for expert climbers.” She takes a deep breath, pressing on the gas as the light changes. “Brynn, should I be worried about you?”

“No.” Leaning my elbow on the windowsill, I blink back the sting of tears. “I just . . . I just want to—”

“I know,” says Hope, sighing as she turns onto the highway. “You want to feel close to him. But you’ve got to be smart if you’re going to walk the Greatest One. As opposed to Glacier Point, Baxter Peak is at 1,600 meters. An additional fifty percent to climb, Brynn. You’re going to be tired by the time you get to the top. Weary like you won’t believe. And definitely not strong enough to take on the Knife Edge. No offense. Anyway, Jem would come back from the dead and kill me if I encouraged you to do it. It’s one of the most dangerous trails in New England. In the world.”

“Okay,” I say, reaching up to swipe at my eyes. “No Knife Edge.”

“Phew. Thought you might fight me on it.”

“Nah. I get it.” I nod my head, but my disappointment over the change in my hiking plans makes me change the subject. “How are your parents?”

“They’ve aged a lot, you know, after . . . it happened,” she shares with a heavy sigh. “But they’re salty New Englanders. They’ll probably outlive us all.” She glances over at me. “Will you have time to see them while you’re out here?”

I know I won’t. Besides, I wouldn’t know what to say to them. But Hope glances at me, so I try to give her the answer she wants.

“Maybe on Tuesday, on my way back to the airport. I’ll definitely try,” I say. “How are you? Still loving your job?”

Hope is the youngest biology professor at the University of Maine.

She nods, her face relaxing. “Totally.”

“Any good stories?”

She grins. “Well . . . I met someone.”

I smile with her, surprising myself because I feel a rare wave of genuine happiness to hear her news. “Shock me and tell me he’s one of your students.”

Chuckling softly, she shakes her head, blonde waves undulating. “Sorry to disappoint you. He’s a professor of environmental studies at BU. Came up to Orono to teach a class, and luckily, I sat in.”

“Love at first sight?” I tease.

“It was the way he talked about land preservation,” she says, sighing dramatically before winking at me.

“A biologist and a preservationist. You sound perfect for each other.”

“I hope so,” she admits, her voice wishful.

“Hey!” I say, pieces of information clicking into place. “Didn’t you say you’re going to Boston tomorrow?”

“Yep.”

“And how long have you two been together?”

“Ten months, give or take.”

“Do you think he’s going to—”

“Don’t say it! It’s bad luck.”

“—propose?” I whisper over her warning.

“Oh, see what you did? Man, I hope you didn’t jinx it!”

“Sorry,” I say, cocking my head to the side. “But now that it’s out there . . . do you?”

“Like I said . . . I hope so.”

For just a moment, my brain flashes back to Jem on one knee, his aqua blue eyes outshining the sky behind him as he opened a tiny white velvet box in his palm.

Brynn, will you marry me?

I clench my eyes shut just for a moment and take a deep breath, then open them again as I exhale, bracing for the wave of panic that always accompanies an especially poignant memory.

Maybe it’s being away from the place where I’d lost him, or being with his sister, who’d loved him as deeply as I had, or this plan to climb Katahdin and bid him farewell, but instead of panic, a wave of peace washes over me, and the tears recede.

With a sigh of relief, I roll down my window and breathe in the Maine air, grateful that memories of my own proposal warm me instead of destroy me.

“I hope so too,” I say, looking over at Jem’s twin sister and praying that her future holds all the happiness stolen from her brother. “I really, really do.”