I hear you all—I will get to the point, starting now :) Thank you all for sticking around through my long update breaks. I haven't been in the best place mentally, and while I refuse to apologize for that (or for taking time off), I want to reassure you all that this will be worth sticking around for, even if updates are a little slower than they have been historically. P.S. No I didn't forget about the flash forward.

I'm lost and confused. Where do I go without you? – "Where Do I Go?" by Lizzy McAlpine

Claire – July

Well, my life has gone to shit. That's fun.

If by fun, of course, you mean nauseating and nightmare-inducing. I'm not fun to be around. I am itchy with anxiety, inside and out.

I think maybe most of my problems would go away if I could read this letter. The one I'm clutching in my hands as I sit on a beach and try to command the courage required to open it. Yet again.

It didn't work in Washington, while I fiddled with the sealed envelope while I waited for my flight to board, praying the contents would help me stay. It didn't work in California. It isn't working here, in Hawaii.

I try to picture my mother writing it, the words she would use, but I come up short. No matter the contents, nothing is going to bring her back. I think maybe the reason I can't force myself to open this envelope is because they are her last words to me, ever. My last memories of her will be colored by whatever's inside, the picture rearranged to create something new and different and… final.

I like things the way they are.

Okay, bad choice of words.

I liked things the way they were. In the beginning of her illness, when she was still herself. Not just alive but living. When she had enough energy to help with dinner and ask about our days. I just want my mom to ask about my day again.

What am I doing, I think. And why can't I stop?

My insides are jumbled, locked inside a washing machine on the highest setting. Just when I think I've got a handle on things, on my feelings and regrets, a fresh wave of pain slices through my understanding. The Black exists in all my interactions now, dulls and darkens and sharpens my words. I'm not fun to be around; it's nice everyone is still pretending for me.

Even today, as we're at a block party-type barbecue for the Fourth of July holiday. If I had a dollar for every time I've been introduced as "a family friend from Washington," I might have been able to bribe Becca into letting me stay home. As it was, she almost had to drag me down the street.

The kids scattered as soon as we arrived: Ethan and Mason ran over to the group of children building what look to be dirt castles—there isn't sand this far inland. Gabe looks like he might join them, but the fire on the grill catches his eye instead, and Solomon walks over with him to take a closer look. His fascination this week must be pyrotechnics.

Hailey hasn't left Becca's hip, a little shy around new people. Funnily enough, she reminds me a lot of her cousin Harper. Most of the women in my life are bold and unapologetic, but not those two little girls. They haven't found something worth coming out of hiding for. I hope they do.

Until three months ago, I would have counted myself as one of the bold ones. Now I do my best to blend into the background, smooth down my edges so nothing snags. If nobody notices me, they can't ask gutting questions.

Sarah and Amelia found their friends immediately upon our arrival. They're two years apart, like Callie and me. When we were younger, our biggest fights always started because I didn't want her hanging around my friends, and all she wanted was to count her big sister among hers. My mother scolded us on more than one occasion for it.

"You don't realize it now," Mom would say, "but having a sister is like having a built-in best friend. And they're extra special, because even when you don't like them, you still love them."

A breath slips out, a mix of nostalgia and grief. Mom, I miss you all the time. Callie, I think next, I miss you right now, watching these sisters.

"That was a heavy sigh," Becca says next to me, handing over the baby. If you can call a two-year-old a baby.

I study her face, ruddy from the heat. Something purple and sticky on her hands and around her mouth. Wild chickadee hair. I'm still looking at her when I answer Becca. "I'm just sort of sad today, I guess."

"Why?"

Has anyone asked me that so directly? To where if I didn't provide an honest answer, I wouldn't be believed? My time with this family has taught me that among the people who matter, nobody can hide as well as they think they can.

I cough, then force myself to say the words I've avoided for two and a half months. "My mom died in April, and I—"

I stop talking, choking on the words.

My mother died.

I just said it, the words like fact. They are fact. My mother died more than two months ago, and it's the first time I've said it aloud, admitted to the outside world what my broken heart reminds me of every single day, every single second.

"My mother's dead," I say, looking up to Becca with shock on my face. Hers is cloudy through my tears, so I don't even see her as she reaches for me. After she mumbles something to someone, she pulls me back down the street.

I'm still holding Hailey, and as if she knows I need it, she winds her arms around my neck and squeezes tight, dropping her head to my shoulder. "Okay, Claire." My name sounds like care when she says it.

We drop to our butts on the top front porch step, my tears a torrent.

"My mom's dead, too, you know," Becca says, loud enough to be heard over the rush of blood in my ears and the roar of the party down the street.

"How long?" I choke. My lungs burn with the attempt to hold everything in, and fireworks go off behind my tightly shut eyes. "How long until it doesn't hurt?"

"This isn't going to be what you want to hear, Claire, but it will always hurt. At least a little bit. You will always miss her."

Her delicate arm pulls me into her side, and I collapse against her. It's been so long since I was held in this way, by someone whose sole purpose was to keep me together. The last time was Quil, and it makes me hurt more now to remember it.

All the colors inside me bleed together, and I'm gasping, clawing at myself from the inside out.

Becca takes Hailey from my arms, I think, because I'm free, floating, unanchored. But just as fast, Becca's arms are back around me, clutching me together because I can't do it for myself.

All the while, she murmurs things into my hair I won't start to comprehend until later, when I've had time to process.

It won't always hurt this much. You will find ways to remember her that make you happy instead of sad. One day you'll be able to hear her favorite song and sing along again, or see a painting she would have liked and tell her about it in your heart.

And it's okay if the very next day, you can't get out of bed because everything is too loud. If the missing her makes you mean or sad or distant. You will get through it however you have to, Claire, but you will get through it.

I know because it happened to me. I did the exact same thing you did, run away from the places that held too much of her. There's no right or wrong way to do this. You just… you just fucking do it, and you deal with it any way you can.

They aren't exactly the right words. There are none of those.

But they help. Just a little. Just for today.

Quil – September

I can't remember the last time I came to the hospital. We didn't even come here when Hannah died. It's been years, but it's frozen in time. Same dingey beige tile and walls. Ugly mass-market flower paintings. I make my way to the room number Embry texted me, the door half-open in invitation. I walk through.

In the hospital bed, Bethany looks the same as always, albeit a little more exhausted: sharp, freckled face, nose ring, chipped black nail polish. Except now there's a little dark-haired bundle on her lap. That's new.

Embry isn't here, but I'd bet five bucks he'll be back in a few minutes. I'm surprised he left their side at all.

"I'd like to say, sincerely," Bethany starts, her voice tired like her eyes, "thank you for not bringing flowers."

The windowsill is filled to the brim with them, giving the room a flowery, perfumed musk.

I lift the drink carrier in my hands. "You hate flowers, and you love coffee. The choice was clear."

"Gimme," she says.

"Trade ya," I say back.

She grins, glancing down at the sleeping baby boy. As she slips her hands under his head to support him, she winces.

I set the coffees on the bedside table and reach for him too, to help her. "How are you?"

When I've got his head supported, Bethany makes a move for the coffee, grabbing the one clearly labeled MOM. Not that it matters. I got three of the exact same thing, just in case.

She groans. "I'll just say having a baby at twenty-nine is a lot different than having one at nineteen."

As she sips her drink and sighs in soulful content, I study the little blue bundle in my arms. Newborns don't really look like anything besides potatoes, but I swear I can see Embry's features miniaturized on this face.

Embry has a son. I have a nephew.

"He's got Em's ears," I say, my eyes prickling. "A little pale, but I guess he gets that from his mom."

Bethany grins before taking a greedy, noisy sip. "God, I missed caffeine." Another sip. "He has some freckles if you look really close."

I lift the baby closer to my face. "You're delusional. There are no freckles."

"I said you have to look really close."

I raise the baby again, close enough to brush a kiss to his forehead. I squint. "This close?"

"F-u-c-k you, Quilliam." She laughs at herself, lets her head fall to the pillow. "God, I'm back to spelling curse words."

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen." I readjust the baby more comfortably for both of us, starting to rock him when he gets fussy.

Babies are nothing new for me. I do some mental math in my head, excluding Sadie because I never held her as a baby. This little guy is number twelve. Rachel and Paul's twins (Cooper and Ben) were numbers ten and eleven, added to the list just under a month ago.

"What's his name?" I ask, running the back of my index finger over the divot in his chin.

"Parker." I can hear the smile in her voice, the pure adoration.

I nod resolutely. A nice name. He won't be teased for it, not the way Embry or I was. I smile down at him. "Well, look at this face. He's gonna break all the hearts. Isn't that right, Parker?"

"Parker Quil," someone says from the doorway. I was so interested in the little guy, I didn't even hear Embry come back. But his words jolt me back to awareness. "Named after his uncle."

Holy hell. My chest goes tight and warm, with love and understanding and pride and obligation and a dozen other feelings I can't yet name. I immediately and completely get Claire's obsession with Marie now. This is the coolest shit in the world.

"And hopefully his godfather," Embry adds, voice thick.

Scratch that. This is the coolest shit in the world.

Parker goes blurry, and I blink a few times. Those flowers by the window must have a lot of pollen. My nose burns.

"Of course," I whisper. "I'm gonna teach you so much, Park. Can I call you Park? Okay, cool. I'll teach you how to surf, and drive a stick shift, because heaven knows your dad can't. I'll teach you all about firetrucks, and I'll let you press the siren button. I haven't even let Sadie do that yet. How to pick up girls—or guys. Whoever you want. Both? Both's cool, too. I'll teach you all my secret tricks."

His little pink tongue sticks out, his lips smack, and I can't help it, I laugh. "Yeah, that'll work just fine. See? Better than me already, Park."

"He's already got half the nurses swooning," Bethany says. "Marlene and Gina left fighting over him."

Parker smacks his lips again, and I finally look up. "I think he's hungry."

Once Bethany and Parker are situated and I've found a suitable place to rest my eyes (there is a riveting spot above Bethany's bed), the mood shifts.

"Have you heard from Claire?" Bethany asks.

"I texted her," I say gruffly, something bitter catching on my tongue. "She hasn't responded yet."

"She'll come," Embry says, patting my shoulder from where he sits next to me on the window bench. Whether he means come back or come around, I'm not sure.

The messages between Claire and I are becoming fewer and farther between. She texted me to tell me she was moving on to Australia, staying with another of Katie's Yosemite friends. But the next time she moved on, she wasn't so conscientious. I didn't even find out she was in Samoa until after she'd already landed in Fiji. As far as I know, that's where she is now.

When I sent her the Bethany's in labor text, I was fully expecting it to stay unread for a while. So far, it has. That's what I was expecting. I don't think about what I was hoping.

We talk through how Sadie did meeting the baby, and Embry showed me the videos and pictures he took while Bethany continues feeding him. Nurses come in and out, and we discuss dinner plans because if Bethany has to eat hospital food again, she "will kill someone."

Something in Parker's grasp glints off the fluorescents, catching my eye.

"Dang, Em," I say, daring a risk in his direction even though he's pretty close to Bethany again, stroking her hair while she strokes Parker's. "Didn't waste any time with that new charm, did you?"

He grins, the tops of his cheekbones flushing a shade darker. "I may have bought one for August and October, too. Just in case."

"Of course you did," I say, grinning.

And I think, maybe, it's okay if half of my heart is on the other side of the world. The other half is in this room.