Getting treatment was Lilly’s biggest mistake, and I’m not going to repeat it. Whether I’m sick or not makes no difference, just as knowing it wouldn’t make any difference.
No more lies.
But no false hope either.
Even if that means losing Nyla?
Lost in thought, I stroll into the still overgrown garden. The shears we used yesterday to start getting the rampant growth under control lie carelessly discarded in the tall grass.
This garden was Lilly’s dream, not mine, and it wasn’t my project alone. There’s no point in continuing here. Without Nyla I don’t want to.
Has she thought about our fight by now? Would she be willing to come back to this garden, even if I don’t get examined?
‘Keep dreaming,’ I tell myself.
The whole bucket list thing was a stupid idea anyway, it wouldn’t have led anywhere.
I quickly stash the shears in the house. Then I grab one of the wobbly wooden chairs and carry it out to the street. I dig the makeshift cardboard sign, a nail, and the hammer out of my backpack and get to work.
Ten minutes later I have to swallow a painkiller, but at least I’ve done what I came here to do.
I look around one last time. ‘I’m sorry, Lilly,’ I say, as if she were standing beside me.
It’s okay, don’t worry about it,she answers in my thoughts.If I could turn back time, I’d do the same thing.
So she thinks I’m sick too. ‘Love you, Camee,’ I say softly.
Love you more, Jayjay.
Lilly’s last words echo inside me as I start walking. Always toward the rising sun. As I put one foot in front of the other, I have no idea at all how things are supposed to go on. I’m on sick leave, I probably ought to rest, but having that much time to think would just drive me crazy.
I need a distraction, even if it’s only for a moment. Maybe I’ll see things a little more clearly afterwards.
An hour later, I pull the rental motorcycle helmet over my head and swing myself onto the Yamaha YZF-R1. Two hundred horsepower, six-speed transmission, zero to a hundred in under three seconds.
‘And you’re sure that’s okay with your injury?’ the guy from the rental place asks me for what must be the fifth time.
I glance briefly at my bandaged shoulder, then at the bike. What I’m about to do feels strangely wrong, but I don’t know what else to do, so I force a smile onto my face.
‘The injury isn’t a problem.’ After all, I’ve got enough painkillers in my system.
‘All right, then, see you this evening.’ He doesn’t look very convinced, but at least he hands me the keys. ‘Have fun.’
Hopefully I will. ‘Thanks.’ I flip the visor down and start the engine.
The bike vibrates, the engine hums.
I should be enjoying the moment; instead I’m thinking about her. Nyla, who should be sitting behind me with her arms wrapped around me. The moment my thoughts turn to her, my chest feels as if a hole is opening up in it.
This has to stop, so I hit the gas, pull out of the rental lot, and take the road toward Route 333.
My shoulder hurts in every bend, but I keep going as I reach the coastal road. The machine roars like a wild animal finally let loose. The wind slaps my face, tugs at my jacket as if it wants to rip me out of the saddle, and that is exactly right.
So why the hell does it feel like anything but right?
The road clings to the cliffs like a narrow scar in the landscape, winding, unpredictable. On the right, the coast dropsaway abruptly. There’s no guardrail, no protective wall, no salvation.
My head should be empty by now, but Nyla is still begging me to have those tests done.