I do have to admit, flying back to Denver by myself was a tad scary, but I was able to navigate my way through the airport . . .with an airline worker's help.

"Does this have to do with Carter?" And then there is Carter. Carter, someone I thought I could love. How stupid and nave I had been there.

"Yeah." I slouch into my seat. "I don't really want to get into it. Let's just say things didn't work out."

Patting my hand, she says, "I'm so sorry to hear that, dearie. You know, I'm here if you ever want to talk about it."

"I know." Taking pause, I gather some courage to talk to her about the real reason I came to visit her today. "Can I ask you a question, Grams?" I stir my tea, feeling jittery about asking my next question.

"You can ask me anything. Do you want to talk about pleasure without repercussions?"

"Never." I chuckle. "No offense, Grams, but I never want to talk about pleasure without repercussions with you. Just never."

"Fair enough." She holds up her hands. "But I'm putting it out there if you ever do want to. I'm quite versed on the topic."

"That's something a granddaughter should never know." We both get in a good laugh, Grams coughing at the tail end of her laughter. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, dearie. Now go on with your question before I start growing cobwebs from your procrastination."

"Okay, just know, I don't mean to hurt your feelings if I do."

"Oh, I know you never would do that on purpose. Now go on."

"I'm just wondering why you kept me sheltered my entire life. Why didn't we ever venture out past our city limits? Why did you keep me so isolated that I didn't have any friends?" I wince, hating the way I sound so ungrateful. This woman gave me everything and here I am questioning her parenting methods, but in order for me to move on, I need to know why.

Staring out the window, she sips her tea, the deep-set wrinkles in her cheeks reminding me of just how old she really is. "Did I ever tell you about the day your grandfather left me?"

"Um, not that I recall. Just that he was mentally ill and had to be hospitalized."

"That's correct, but what I didn't tell you was that he was suffering from PTSD. He was a soldier, a brave one during the Vietnam War. He left for deployment, a happy, proud, loving man. When he came home, he was a completely different person. He wasn't the Harold I married. His eyes read like a tortured novel, his reactions were scattered, his mind never fully immersed in the here and now. His mood continued to become unstable with each passing day, to the point where I had to lock myself in the bathroom because he treated the house like a war zone, never fully cognizant of his surroundings. Finally, I had to seek help and that's when he hospitalized himself . . . for a day."

"For a day?" I ask.

She nods. "He checked himself out the next day and hung himself in our house. I came home to find him there, dead, with a note saying the world was a bitter and grim place full of hatred, a place he didn't want to live in anymore."

"Oh my gosh, Grams. I had no idea."

"Not a lot of people did. I was so distraught, so physically and emotionally impacted by his choice that I fell into a deep depression. I buried myself in a hole of solitude, never wanting to face the world that took my Harold away." With glossy eyes, she looks up at me. "And then you came along. You were this little droplet of sunshine in my life I didn't know I needed. Your bright, cheery self brought me back, and I didn't want to lose that. So I kept you to myself. Was I wrong? Secluding you from the outside world? Yes, but would I do it again? Of course. You see, if I lost you to the same world, I would have lost myself. It was selfish of me, but it was the only way I knew how to hang on to the joy you brought me."

"Grams." Tears flood my eyes. "What's changed now?"

She wipes under her eyes with shaky hands. "You're a grown-up now. You handled my stroke with grace and maturity, and I knew at that moment I had to let you go to live your life the way you want to, not the way I want." Cupping my cheek, she adds, "And look at you, my beautiful girl. You're doing it. You're putting yourself out there and experiencing everything this world has to offer: the good, the bad, and the ugly."

"I'm proving my existence," I murmur in awe.

"Yes, dearie, you are."

Reflecting back on the last few months, I consider everything I've accomplished so far: I've made friends. I've changed from the inside out, daring myself to complete certain challenges and learning new things, even if they are of the smallest variety. And most of all, I experienced the one emotion everyone in the world can connect with: love. Maybe it was short-lived, but I captured a moment with it, and for that, I should be proud of myself. But I still think there is more to come for me, there has to be.

A little unsure, I ask, "Do you think I'm capable of great things, Grams?"

"I think you're capable of grand things, my dear. I think you've stuck your toe into the pool and have barely tested the waters. There is so much waiting for you outside these doors, and I can't wait to see what you do with your untapped potential."

Grams isn't the first one to think I have potential. Carter said the same thing. Maybe it's time I start believing it as well.

"Thank you." Standing up, I take my empty teacup to the sink and give it a rinse.

"What's your plan?" Grams calls out to me.

"My plan?"

"Yes, what's your plan for life after the Dear Life program?"

Turning toward Grams, I dry my teacup and shrug my shoulders. "I'm not sure, but I'm ready to find out."

Dear Life, His words keep ringing in my head over and over again. He loves me. And when he said those three beautiful words, at that very moment, all I could think about was how much I loved him, too. But I couldn't say it. Something was stopping me.

At first, I thought it was my guilt for loving another man, but after spending many sleepless nights with his face in my mind, his voice echoing through my head, I realized it's not my guilt holding me back, it's me.

How can I fully give myself over to someone, a man who has given me every last inch of his soul, when I still live in my past? I can't.

I can't move forward when I'm surrounded by my past.

Accepting my past is more than just stating it, it's about action. I wake up every morning and get ready in a bathroom that still has Eric's toothbrush in the holder. I get dressed in a closet surrounded by his clothes. I walk through an apartment filled with shrines to the man I lost. The man who will never come back and love me again.

What is supposed to be a comfortable sanctuary is a depressing reminder of what I used to have.

No more. From this point on, I'm moving forward. I can't stand for my life to be dormant anymore. I already lost Eric, and I don't want to lose Jace as well.

Sincerely, Hollyn Dear Life, With the world at my fingertips, where does one even begin?

School? Job? Traveling?

There are so many options, so many avenues to travel down. What if I pick the wrong thing and miss this opportunity for starting something new?

After talking to Grams, I've been able to put to rest her reasoning for sheltering me from the world, and now I'm ready to take the next step in my life. What it's going to be, I'm not quite sure, but what I do know is I'm excited about it.

If only I could experience whatever it is with Carter. That will take me some time to get over, but scars heal and make you stronger. Chalk it up to a life experience.

Weirdly, I'm excited to have a life experience under my belt. Look at me adulting!

Kind regards, Daisy Dear Life, If you're trying to make me crack, you're doing one hell of a job.

Too bad for you, I'm stronger than you might think. I don't want to tempt you, but you're going to have to try a little harder. Yeah, I might have shown some weak spots, but with a little motivation and reassurance, I'm coming back stronger than ever before.

It's time to stand up for what's right, to truly face my fear, accept my past, and move the fuck on to happiness. It's time to take what's been broken and make it right.

Jace Dear Life, You are one confusing motherfucker.

Carter

Step Eight: Live

DAISY.

"Want a bite?"

The chipmunk next to me skittishly looks at my half-eaten Snickers bar, back at me, then back at the bar, and when I think he's about to claw my eyes out to take the whole thing, he backs away and takes off into the shrubbery below.

"Careful, friend," I call out, "that water is still cold."

Peeking over the ledge, I don't spot the chipmunk, only the crystal-clear mountain water I earlier mistakenly dipped my toe in-thinking a little splash would be nice, not realizing the water was still very cold. Duh, Daisy, altitude and everything.

Eh, you live and you learn.

And boy, am I living.

With my hands behind me, I lean into the rock I'm sitting cross-legged on and enjoy the wind blowing through my hair, my head bent back, taking in the crisp mountain air.

This is my second hike with the small hiking group I joined, and even though it's challenging, it's rewarding. Thankfully all those years of going for brisk walks with Grams has kept me relatively fit. Even better? The small group I walk with also enjoys solitude, so as much as we walk in a group for safety, I can spend moments like these quietly appreciating the beauty without having to make conversation. The mountains have become my new addiction. It's so calm and peaceful and there's nothing more exhilarating than reaching your destination only to look out into the vast wilderness and appreciate this beautifully imperfect world.

The best part of hiking, I can clear my mind and really focus on the here and now. My brain settles into a happy place, like meditation, only fixating on one thing: my destination and the strenuous journey I make to get there.

Breathing in deeply, I exhale, shut my eyes and let the wilderness speak around me.

Silence.

HOLLYN.

Anxiety high, throat clamped tight, fingers taking in the feel of his fabric one last time, I sit cross-legged in my closet, Eric's clothes surrounding me, the feel of sorrow once again eating me whole.

Dress shirts, slacks, shoes, sweatpants, firefighter T-shirts. They envelope me on the floor, his scent encompassing me.

In my hands, I grip one of my favorite shirts, his John Elway jersey. So many memories were made in this jersey. So many Sundays he spent wearing this jersey, drinking beer with his buddies, pulling me onto his lap, his hand clasped on my waist, whispering into my ear during the game, telling me how beautiful I am, how he was going to celebrate with me after the Broncs won. Waking up on Mondays, his jersey covering me while I made coffee for the both of us, only to have him walk out shirtless, a devilish look on his face, like he was going to eat me up, right there in the kitchen, coffee in hand. And most mornings, with this jersey still covering my body, he did.

And his purple dress shirt, the one his friends gave him crap about, the one Eric said only real men wear violet. It was the same shirt he wore when he proposed to me. The same shirt he ripped all the buttons off in a silly heat of passion when we came home. Acting like some sexed-up version of Tarzan, I can still see him hopping on the couch, tearing his shirt apart, and yelling that I said yes for everyone to hear. The shirt was useless after that, but he kept it because to him, it was something he wore on one of the best days of his life. And there goes one more tear down my cheek.

And his trainee shirt, the one he wore with pride, because being a civil servant was important to him. Generations of policemen and firemen ran in his family, and he wanted to carry the torch of serving the people. And he did, beautifully. It was vital to him. Even before he had a chance to finish training, he was always helping out the community, whether it was buying out the lemonade stand at the local park and serving drinks with children to thirsty park-goers, or lending a hand to someone on the side of the highway whose tire was flat. He was always serving graciously and with the will to emulate the men before him.

Lying back into the pile, I surround myself in Eric, aching for his touch, his deep, rich voice, that mind-altering smirk of his. Just one more hug, one more kiss, one more I love you. If I knew it was the last, I would have made it the best, never letting go.

"Unchained Melody" by The Righteous Brothers plays on repeat, Eric's favorite song to sing to me when he was feeling playful. Kneeling on the ground, hands clasped in front of him, singing, "I need your love," like a scene out of Top Gun but instead of singing "You've Lost that Lovin' Feeling," he would serenade me with his horribly off-key voice, making me giggle when he would grab me by the waist and force me to sway with him around the apartment until the song was over. It was no wonder I loved this man so deeply.

"I've hungered for your touch." The lyrics echo through my head. They ring so true. How I've hungered, practically starved for one more touch, to feel his rough jaw against mine, his strong arms wrapped around me.

"I miss you," I cry into his jersey, my head now resting against his suit jackets.

This. Hurts. This is going to be much harder than I thought. A sobbing mess, tears streaming down my face, shaky hands doing all the work, I open my first trash bag and start stuffing Eric's clothes inside, a sob wracking my bones with each and every garment I sniff and say goodbye to.

Drowning in Eric, despite the pain that rips through me each moment, I attempt to move forward.

You're moving forward, you're working toward your new future.

I repeat those words over and over in my head, convincing myself I'm doing the right thing.

JACE.

"Why didn't you come talk to me?" I ask Ethan who's sitting in an ice bath from the waist down reading on his phone. Despite his young age, his knees are strained every day from squatting and standing, so an ice bath is a necessity in his world.

He doesn't look at me when he answers, "I couldn't. I just fucking couldn't."

"Why not? Did you think you were just going to get away with not saying anything and go on your merry way?"

Putting his phone down to the side, he pinches his brow. "I don't know what I was thinking, man. I fucked up. I was thinking with my dick. I'm sorry. Despite what Rebecca decided, I should have told you."

"You're damn right you should have told me. Shit, man. I sat there, crying to you about what she planned to do and you said nothing."

The last thing I want to do right now after a long game is talk to Ethan about all this bullshit again but the first step to healing is forgiving. I need to find it deep within me to forgive him, because dammit, I want to move on. I have to move on.

"She asked me not to say anything."

"You've known her for a few months, you've known me for years, so how does she trump me? You're the only brother I've ever had."

"Fuck." He rubs both his hands over his face. "I'm sorry, Jace. I don't know what else to say. If I had another chance, I would suck it up and tell you instead of cowering in the corner, hoping you never found out."

His sorry doesn't truly hit me like I wanted it to, but it's not because it isn't sincere, it's because forgiving is a lot harder than I expected it to be. It's not like he says I'm sorry and all is forgiven. I'm still bitter and upset.

"Ethan, do you still believe she should have the right to take back the baby she gave away? This is not about me, and it's not about you. This is about a little girl who has been placed in a warm, loving home. And yes, she is little, but do you think it is right to rip her from that home, give her to her birth mother, who might change her mind in the future and give her up again? Whether it be emotionally or physically? It's got to be about Hope. Do you think I have a shot here of changing her mind?"

Looking me dead in the eyes, Ethan nods. "Yeah, I think you have a shot, man. I haven't liked the woman she's become since she first came after Hope. Bro-code, and all. You just have to approach it properly." So he's taken off his lust-covered glasses now?

"Will you help me?" I ask, hope billowing within me. Is my friend back?

With kind eyes, he nods. "Yeah, I'll help you."

CARTER.

"Hand me a pen. I don't have all day."