Bring tissues, friends. These two keep surprising me.

Sometimes a hurt is so deep deep deep,you think that you're gonna drown – "Rain" by Patty Griffin

Claire

I shut the front door behind me. Quil just walked me home, right up to my door.

"Come back to my hotel room," he said on the beach. "We can keep talking."

I didn't really know what there was to talk about. I certainly didn't have anything to say to him after that. "We can talk in the morning," I said instead.

The more distance I put between myself and that beach, the more things get muddled and messy in my brain. Our reunion felt cheapened by our hormones. And Quil's words still stuck with me. It has to break, not you have to break. I still don't like how it sounds as it echoes in my thoughts.

Bussaba is awake when I come through to the tiny family room, where I've been sleeping on the sofa. Paitoon and Bear sleep down the hall in the second bedroom.

"You were out late," Bussaba says to me, getting to her feet with a groan that accompanies all hard-working people with old bones.

"I was with Quil. Did Paitoon tell you he was here?"

She nods, and it's sort of dim in here but I think she looks sad. "Will you go home?"

The thought of home makes me queasy and confused. Home is here—but home is there. Home is my mother and home is my sister and home is Quil, but Quil is here, and I don't feel at home in him the way I'm used to.

For so long he was the safe place I'd let my mind travel to when I needed an escape from the power of my feelings. I thought if we ever found each other again, I'd go to him instantly, wherever I was. Now I'm not so sure.

Quil

I call my brother once I hear Claire settle down for the night, not caring about the time difference (fourteen hours) or the international charges this call is sure to rack up.

"Hey," Embry says in greeting. "How are things?"

I'm quiet for a few seconds, trying to gather my thoughts on the way home. "I… did a thing," I say eventually.

Embry, too, is silent for a beat. "Hold on, I'm getting B."

I want to make a smart comment – just what I need, or something like that – but I find more often than not, I'm thankful for her viewpoint. Unless, of course, she's telling me I fucked this all to hell. Which, to be fair, is a strong possibility here. I'm not dumb.

"What'd you do, Quilliam?" Bethany says finally. She sounds tired.

It's the nickname, I think, that breaks some of the seriousness. "Are there little ears around?"

"Fuck," Bethany says, which answers my question. "It's that bad?"

"I tried to break the imprint."

"How, exactly?" She sounds suspicious, and for good reason. Embry curses under his breath, but it's passionate enough that I can still hear it.

I look up at the sky. It's cloudy tonight, the moon and stars out of view. It feels like an omen. "We had sex."

Embry groans. "We told you that wasn't going to work."

"Well, you know—I was desperate." I sigh, run a hand over my beard. It might be time for a trim.

"And do you feel better?" Bethany says, her voice falling flat. She clearly knows the answer.

"No," I say. "Maybe? I don't know. That's why I called."

Even as I say the words, I realize how dumb they are. How are they supposed to fix me from the other side of the world? I'm here with Claire again, got to feel her skin against mine, and even that's not enough.

What do you do if your last resort fails?

"Are you coming home, then?" Embry asks.

The thought of home, work, makes my stomach churn. I took a leave of absence, a sabbatical of sorts, but Chief told me all he could give me for sure was two weeks. It would be the smart thing to do to go home, when that was a sure thing and this… situation with Claire was not.

But if I'd proven anything to myself by that little idiotic stunt on the beach, it was that, for whatever reason—and fuck if I ever figured out what it was—Claire was it. Tethered to me in ways neither of us could describe. Or sever, apparently.

"Not yet," I say on instinct. I'm tired of being without her. If we're going to be miserable together, the least we can do is be in eyesight of each other.

Besides, we all know the last year and a half were anything but okay. And I already grew a beard. What's next—the quarter-life-crisis trip to Thailand? Been there, done that.

Bethany excuses herself to go pick Sadie up from school, but I keep the phone pressed to my ear, ready for Embry to impart some words of sage wisdom.

"I think she's pregnant," he says instead.

"Claire?" I screech, scattering an errant bird that had been pecking at the ground ahead of me.

"Bethany," Embry corrects. "I just have a—"

"Feeling," we say together. Fuck all the wolves and all their feelings about all their imprints. Look where my feelings got me. I choke on a laugh. "Jesus, Em, I thought you were joking when you said you were going to knock her up in that dress."

He laughs. "That makes one of us."

I roll my eyes, and realize he's got his love-drunk goggles on. If I want him to tell me something specific, I'm going to have to ask for it. "Is it all worth it?"

"Yes," he says immediately. "Yes, Quil, the fight is worth it. I promise."

Claire

I don't know what it is about today.

There's nothing special: it's not an anniversary, the sun wasn't shining just right, I didn't hear her favorite song.

I just woke up, and I knew. I have to read the letter.

Maybe it was Quil's sudden reappearance four days ago. Since then, he's hung out around the fringes—showing up at our house right around the same time Bear and I set off for the restaurant, staying until close to walk me home. He's endeared himself to Panya, who showed him how to trim his pork belly to perfection. Bussaba is leerier, I think, because of Paitoon. But she still smiles at Quil when he drops me back off on the front porch.

It reminds me so much of the early days of our relationship: when he'd pick me up from school, drop me off for Saturday morning SAT prep. Making dinner with my mother and laughing with Callie over a show they both enjoyed.

Or maybe it's nothing to do with Quil.

But something is holding me back, and I don't know what it is. I can't move forward if I'm stuck in quicksand. Maybe this letter will have the answers I need.

I duck out before the sun rises, and if Quil's awake and around, he doesn't let me know.

Maybe I feel alone because I am alone. And maybe I am alone because I pushed everyone away. I shouldn't be shocked at the consequences of my own actions, yet…

On the beach, the sunrise provides just enough light to read by. So I sit, take in a deep breath of sea-salted air, and slide my finger under the envelope.

My Dearest, Loveliest Claire,

First, last, and always, I love you. Please never forget this. Tattoo these words on your skin if you must, but more importantly, engrain them in your mind and write them on your heart.

You are the daughter I prayed for. We waited years for you, and you specifically. I asked every Ancestor I could remember, even ones I couldn't, to bring me a baby girl I could love with my entire heart. I would name her Claire, I thought. It means 'light'. And the second I saw you, that's what you became. My light. I wasn't sure how I could exist with my heart outside my body. But there you were, right in my arms.

You made me a mama, and you made me a better mama. For as much as I taught you—how to talk, walk, tie your shoes, eat your vegetables—you taught me more. About myself, about what unconditional love means, about forgiveness and regret and being proud of something you created. And I am so, so proud.

Even if all you did was keep breathing, that is enough today. That is enough every day.

When you read these words, I will be dead. It's okay to say the words. They aren't dirty. They hurt like hell, but they're true.

There is so much I want for you in life, but above all, I want you to live.

Claire, you have fire in your veins. Never let it die. Because I will. And you will too, eventually. This time on earth we have is so fleeting. Death does well to bring life into perspective.

There are so many things I won't get to see with my eyes, so many places I won't get to travel with you like we planned. I won't get to see you graduate college, marry Quil, become a mother.

Some dreams aren't meant to come true. That doesn't mean they aren't valuable. Dreaming teaches us what we want more than anything, the things we're afraid to say out loud, think too loud. And even if you know you'll never get them, Claire, I hope you have the courage to go after them anyway.

Let yourself fail. Let yourself be sad, but more importantly, let yourself be happy. And get help if you can't do either. I wish this for you—to feel. Feel everything your body allows you, even the confusing parts.

If I know you at all, it will be a while before you read this. I planned for this. I don't have any final wishes for you. I won't request you spread your share of my ashes in the tulips of Amsterdam or the white sands of Bali or on top of the Eiffel Tower, unless that's where you are. I am not anywhere you aren't. If you are there, I am there.

I am in the sunshine and the thunderstorms, your best days and your worst, the exciting and the mundane. The loud moments, and the quiet.

I am in your heart. I am with you.

All my love for all your life,

Mom

Claire's Guide to Life through Music

1. Listen when you read this: Village by Cam
2. Listen when Quil runs after you, because he always will, if you let him: It's Always You by Kris Allen
3. Listen when your heart breaks (I hope you never have to listen to this, but life is hard): Master & A Hound by Gregory Alan Isakov
4. Listen when you hate your sister: You Can't Always Get What You Want by The Rolling Stones
5. Listen when you need to escape: September by Earth, Wind & Fire
6. Listen when you screw up big: Medicine by Daughter
7. Listen when you want to smile: Could You Be Loved by Bob Marley & The Wailers
8. Listen when you want to cry: Rain by Patty Griffin
9. Listen when you miss me: Islands In the Stream by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton
10. Listen when you miss yourself: Here Comes the Sun by The Beatles

I reread the letter three times, pulling my collar up under my eyes so my tears don't damage the pages. These are my mother's last words to me. They are precious. They are mine.

I can't tell whether the ripping sensation in my chest is my heart breaking further apart or stitching back together. Can both be true?

I read a quote one time that said grief is love with nowhere to go. I haven't really felt the truth of that until this moment. There have been seconds, minutes, whole weeks since my mother died when all I wanted was to hear her laugh. When the sun hit stained glass and threw fractals of light across the room. She used to call them personal rainbows, messages from heaven.

And then the pain, the overwhelming pain hit when I remember that now, those messages could be from her. That hurt only compounded when I realized the only person I wanted to comfort me is the one who can't.

It is the most painful paradox on earth.

With shaking fingers, I go for my bag, the front pocket where I keep my headphones. I haven't used them since I left home, so they're a knotty nightmare. I hear the letter in my head as I untangle them, and wonder when the voice in my head became my mother—has it always been her?

Listen when you read this.

Okay, Mom. I'm not ready, but I can do this for you. Always for you.

I search the song but don't start it until my headphones are secure. I take a few steadying breaths. They don't do much. But Mom said if all I did today was breathe, that was a good day.

With one more skim of the letter to make sure I've got the right song and artist, I press play.

"Claire, don't you dare—"

I choke on air, my lungs squeezing so tight I think I'm dying. The music continues, the waves keep rolling in front of me, but I am frozen.

My name.

She said my name.

My screen blurs through a fresh round of tears, but I manage to restart the song. There's no way I heard that right. It was my keyed-up imagination, heart overriding logic the way it so often does.

The same few opening notes fill my ears, and I force my pulse to quiet in my ears. The music's already turned up as loud as it will go.

"Claire, don't you dare believe them," the woman sings again.

Fresh waves of grief threaten to drown everything else out, but in this second, I decide to return to my roots. I ride them instead of avoiding them.

"I'd never leave you alone. I've been watching over you…"

For every word that flows into my ears, I hear them in my mother's voice. The song goes on to explain we are an amalgamation of those who love us, those who invest time in our tears are rivers, a torrent of salt water down my cheeks. And the pain is there, light and heavy at the same time. My mother found the perfect song for me. I mean, it has my fucking name in it.

I should be able to feel more—this is everything I've wanted. These are the words I needed to hear for the last five hundred fifty-five days. I think back to that night on the beach with Quil, how I wanted to feel more then, too. How he'd looked so… disappointed when he told me he still loved me.

How nothing feels right except the wrong.

And I realize there is nothing but Black.

Quil

When I look up from the restaurant stoop, Claire is there, her cheeks ruddy and splotched. She's been crying. I wish I didn't have this expression memorized, that her tears were rare enough for me to forget their indicators.

We have not been that fortunate.

In her hand is a folded piece of paper. When she shifts, I catch sight of Hannah's handwriting, and my heart cracks right down the middle. I knew she'd been on the beach, and I could take an educated guess as to why, but this was confirmation.

"Did you fuck me on the beach to try and break the imprint?"

My face pales. What the fuck did her letter say? "What do you mean?"

Her jaw sets in determination, even as it wobbles. "Don't bullshit me. Is that what happened?"

"Yes," I say, because I can't lie to her, not about this.

"Can you take me home?" Claire says.

My pulse pounds as confusion settles in among my ribs and organs. Is she going to yell at me so badly that she doesn't want witnesses? "Sure," I say uneasily. "I'll walk you home."

"No. Home home. I need to go to Washington."

Okay, seriously, what the fuck? Did I wake up in an alternate dimension? "What happened, Claire?"

"I can't, Quil—" Her eyes well with tears. Her shoulders cave in on themselves as she claws at her middle and her knees find the dirt beneath her. My pulse freezes in my veins. I knew if she found out, she'd be livid. I hoped—maybe stupidly—we'd get back to ourselves one day. Then she sobs, "I don't want to do this anymore. I can't, I—I can't—"

I collapse next to her as she sways. She falls limply into me. Her hipbone is sharp against mine. She's lost more weight than I realized. "Do what? What can't you do anymore?"

"Breathe," she whispers. "I don't want to keep breathing."

"Oh, sweetheart," I whisper back, holding her firm against me. My heart caves in on itself to match hers. "I'll take you home."