We’re old and grey, our bond in love stronger than it ever were before. Our bones are brittle and our beauty long ago faded. The sun settles beneath the forest across the way, with the shadows of tall trees billowing across the road and onto the sloped hill. Side by side, we rock in chairs, enjoying the cool, end of summer breeze.

This farmhouse is stained with memories of the good times, and memories of the bad times. They serve as a constant reminder that love is eternal, even when it appears irrevocably broken.

At once, we were trapped by our dreams, an idealization of what our lives should have looked like. We were both dreamers, but somewhere along the way, we lost sight of who we were when we saw our dreams were dashed away like thunder in the night. We didn’t always do the right things, and when we did, it reeked of failure, as if somehow the truth was just as dangerous as freedom.

My world spiraled out of control that fateful night when metal tore through metal, and sliced open the wounds of my marriage. For the longest time, I blamed my husband for the events that unfolded that night, but with hindsight and wisdom, I’ve come to rest the blame on the shoulders of whom it belongs, the twisted sensibility of tragedy.

Tragedies are unavoidable in life, and they test us. They pull at our heartstrings, and rip the carpet from beneath us. I used to believe that only the strong could recover, and that left me reeling and sent me down a path where the love I had for myself was conditional. He showed me otherwise.

I think about Kemper all the time, and the way he made me feel, and the way it wasn’t really about him and I at all. He awoken something in me that long lied dormant. He saw me for who I was, and reached his strong hand into my heart and pulled it to the surface. At once, I was drowning in misery and pain. And he saved my soul in every way a soul could ever be saved.

The last time I saw him, we were standing in the pouring rain outside of a run-down motel. I never heard from him again, and sometimes, that leaves a burden on my soul. Looking back, again with hindsight and wisdom, I wish I could have told him what he meant to me. I mean, really, truly told him how he saved me. But I know he’s out there somewhere, and he’s happy, and he’s free, and he loves someone who deserves his love, in the same way he loved me. Without rules. Without limits. Without hesitation. Without condition.

I love Brock—yesterday, today, and tomorrow—because I loved Kemper.

I was his teacher, and he was my student.

But soon he became my teacher, and I became his student as he taught me how to love again.

Where in the world is Kemper Scott? Stay tuned and find out soon. If you haven’t already, sign up for the K.B. Nelson ARC list and automatically receive free review copies in exchange for honest reviews! *

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