Grief, sharp and keening. Grief that makes me gasp, the pain of an excised heart. I rub my chest even as I hear my parents: Both hands on the steering wheel. At all times.

How the hell did heartache literally hurt so much?

“You okay?” Roz asks.

I nod, a silent lie, and keep focused on the road. I hadn’t felt this demolished when Darren faded away. But Josh? I miss him at a soul-deep level.

“He isn’t worth it,” Roz says.

“He was,” I tell her.

Auntie Ruth signed up for death-do-us-part until death came to collect early. I can finally understand why she has placed herself in a self-imposed exile. I can’t even bear the thought of being shattered like this again. But Josh showed me what lay outside my (post-Darren) tent: a true connection, so much more than mere physical lust. Although that was good, too.

I correct myself, “He is.”

As I press my foot on the gas pedal, I spot an orange hazard sign: ROAD WORK AHEAD.

No truer words. Josh has his work ahead of him.

So do I.

And now I laugh.

“Should I call Mom and Dad?” Roz holds her phone, ready to emergency dial them.

I refuse to be a tent-woman, someone who remains hermetically sealed and who keeps her pain in mint condition. I refuse to take tidy, polite, no-thank-you bites when the next right guy asks me out. Our universe is way too large, populated with way too many unexpectedly cool people not to cough up or hand deliver the next right one, even if I want Josh.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asks.

“Not yet,” I say, “But I will be.”

 

Dear Josh,

So.

You’ve been on my mind. First, rewatching Firefly (actually, relistening since, well, screens and UV rays and tech curfews). Also: I’m feeling unsettled because we didn’t get to talk. So I hope you’ll let me say my peace.

Our hearts are a renewable resource, according to Auntie Ruth. I believe that. But could yours still be somewhat depleted from everything that happened pre-Us? All this to say: If this is where you are, I understand. Of course you could have simply lost interest. It happens. I just wish you had told me.

I’ve decided to officially quit my consulting job with Persephone, hang up my Muse shoes. I’ve overstayed in my own Necromanteion, and there are other places in the world I’d like to see. I hope you get to Chile, too.

Zoë’s right (as usual): “She’s torn up plenty, but she’ll fly true.”

Take care,

Viola

P.S. I did have one last idea. What if Persephone seeks out the Oracle of the Dead? She thinks she can find the answers to her twin sister’s fate, but instead, the Oracle of the Dead (always the cryptic) tells her to live it all—the good, the bad, the deeply awful, and the extremely joyful. Sometimes, we are never given the answer to why.

P.P.S. And now your own mixtape.

STARLIGHT

Another Sunny Day—Belle & Sebastian

Sunday Morning—The Velvet Underground, Nico

See the Sun—The Kooks

Everlasting Light—The Black Keys

Rise to the Sun—Alabama Shakes

Mornings—Tica Douglas

Sunburn—Ed Sheeran

Pocketful of Sunshine—Natasha Bedingfield

 

When the past direct dials you, sometimes—not always, but sometimes, it’s possible to turn leftovers into something even more delicious, like Caramel Rum Banana Bread Pudding, the best use for day-old banana bread.

—Viola Wynne Li

The Gastrodiplomat’s Guide to the Galaxy