An elderly guest named Paul is sitting on the nearest garden bench, watching me re-lay the bricks for the planter.

“I used to garden,” Paul says, eyeing me carefully. “Still do, actually. But only during certain seasons. Do you like to plant things?”

I lay a new brick down. “Not really. I’m more of a ‘fixing things’ kind of guy.”

He laughs and the sound is hoarse and gritty, like he’s been smoking for fifty years. “That’s pretty much all planting is¸ fixing. You grow a flower or a vegetable—you spend months watering it and protecting it from the sun and critters—and then one day it starts to die and you have to fix it.”

My thoughts go to Charity. I banish them.

Then my thoughts go to Pixie, and I don’t banish them.

Paul leans forward on the cane in his hands. “It’s the damnedest thing, a dying plant, and it makes a man want to give up. But that’s the beauty of gardening, son. You can revive the things that wither.”

I lay another brick and shovel back some dirt from the flower bed. “It sounds like rewarding work.”

“Oh, it is. It is.” He’s silent for so long I think maybe he’s fallen asleep, but when I look over at him, he’s wide-awake and watching me lay the last brick down.

Finished, I stand and dust my hands off on my jeans and pick up my supplies.

“They’re stronger, you know.” Paul looks up at me.

I shield my eyes in the morning sun. “What’s stronger?”

“The plants that you revive,” he says. “When you bring something back from the brink of death, it fights harder to thrive.” Paul leans on his cane again and smiles. “So is the story of life, I guess.”

“Ellen says you still have the spare keys?” I say outside of Pixie’s open bedroom door. This is the first we’ve spoken since the Fourth of July Bash.

“Oh. Yeah,” she says. “I found my own set yesterday. Now, where… did I put… the spare keys…?” She glances around. “You can come in. This might take a minute.”

I step into Pixie’s room, not sure if I want to be here. It feels personal. And it smells like her, which makes my chest feel funny.

There’s a tension in the air I’ve been trying to ignore all day, but with every passing minute it growers thicker and tighter. Tomorrow is almost here.

I can’t think about it, so I concentrate on mundane objects as she searches for the keys.

Dirty clothes on the floor.

Paintbrushes in glass jars. Stained. Frayed. Chewed at the ends.

She’s always been such a mess. I like her messy.

My eyes wander and land on four paintings strung up against the wall, and my feet absently take me there. I blink as I take in the dark-haired girl with light in her eyes and mischief in her smile. She’s fearless and pensive. Laughing and free. She’s everything I remember and more.

Charity.

My stomach fills with longing, but not the sad kind. The meaningful kind. The kind of longing you feel when you think about your first roller coaster or your first perfect game. The longing that makes you wish you could experience it again, but so grateful you had it in the first place.

I touch a finger to the closest painting. “These are beautiful.”

Pixie hesitates. “Thanks. Sometimes I see her and I just want to remember.”

I nod because I get it. “I like that you remember.”

She finds my eyes, and all I see is a sad little girl who lost her friend. Everything inside me wants to cross the space between us and pull her into my arms. The last time I felt this way was at Charity’s funeral. There were people in dark clothes everywhere, saying things to me I couldn’t hear. There were tears and prayers filling up the cemetery. And then there was Pixie.

Seated in a wheelchair five people away with bruises on her face and a thick bandage peeking out from her purple dress. The girl wore purple. Charity’s favorite color. Tears fell down her cheeks, but her face was expressionless.

I wanted to hug her then. I wanted to pull her close and tuck us into each other, where there was no one else to mourn Charity. Just us. Because no one else understood. Just us.

“I found the keys.” Pixie looks up at me, and I’m suddenly looking at Charity.

I’m watching her play with dolls and dress up like a princess and ask for a kitty every Christmas. I’m hearing her tell on me for lighting firecrackers in the backyard and whine when I get to stay up later than she does. I’m watching her cry on her first day of junior high when some girls made fun of her outfit, and lock herself in her bedroom when Jason Hampton broke up with her. I’m seeing her grow up, I’m sharing my banana splits with her, I’m watching scary movies with her in the upstairs bedroom so Mom and Dad can’t hear us, I’m giving her a ride to the mall and yelling at her for taking my credit card. I see Charity and she’s beautiful and happy. And worth reliving every memory.

I blink, and it’s Pixie staring back at me.

“I miss her,” I blurt out.

It’s the first time I’ve felt safe enough to admit that to someone aloud. It’s the first time I’ve been able to say that without feeling guilty.

Pixie nods like she totally gets it. “I miss her too.”

She gets it.

There is nothing extraordinary about today.

It is just a day. A Saturday, to be exact, at the end of July. The morning birds are chirping outside. The wind is blowing through the fields out back. And I am alive.

Lying in bed, I roll onto my side and stare at the four gray paintings hanging on the far wall. Sadness does not flood into me like I anticipate. Nor does anger or peace. The only thing I feel, as the waking sunbeams slide over my sheet-wrapped body, is longing. Deep, wailing longing.

Not for the girl in gray—that girl is at peace and unbroken—but for the boy next door, who is anything but. And yet the boy next door feels farther away than the girl in gray.

I let out a long, slow breath as I stare at Charity’s face. Today marks the one-year anniversary of her death. A year has gone by, but somehow no time has passed. I’m still here, at the precipice of my future, waiting for life to happen. I’m still the broken girl who woke up in a hospital bed without her best friend, without her hero.

I thought time stopped for me, but time is not something I ever had or ever will have. It simply is. It never begins. It never ends. So the sun rises and sets, and my scar heals and fades, and the morning birds chirp on.

There is nothing extraordinary about today, except that it has come and I have lived to see it.

But perhaps that is precisely what makes today more extraordinary than any day before.

With a deep breath, I get out of bed.

I’m sitting against a log right at the edge of the lavender field with my back to the trees beyond. The air smells like Pixie.

The inn lights are mostly off, giving darkness over to the night and showcasing the many stars in the clear sky. It’s quiet out here, no guests milling about the grounds or taking late-night walks, no storm.

I light the cigarette in my hand, take a drag, and tilt my head up to the stars as I exhale.

Everyone kept a wide berth around me today, no one brave enough to start any conversations with me or make direct eye contact. I’m not sure what they were afraid of. Me breaking into tears?

Angelo was the only person who even acknowledged the shittiness of today, and even he didn’t use words. He simply walked past me as he was leaving for the night and handed me a single cigarette and a lighter.