Let the Light in, page 1
Copyright © 2023 by Alexa Scarboro
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Cover Design by Cindy Ras at Cindy Ras Draws
Editing by Caitlin Lengerich
Instagram: @author.alexascarboro
Contents
Dedication
1. Prologue
2. Chapter One
3. Chapter Two
4. Chapter Three
5. Chapter Four
6. Chapter Five
7. Chapter Six
8. Chapter Seven
9. Chapter Eight
10. Chapter Nine
11. Chapter Ten
12. Chapter Eleven
13. Chapter Twelve
14. Chapter Thirteen
15. Chapter Fourteen
16. Chapter Fifteen
17. Chapter Sixteen
18. Chapter Seventeen
19. Chapter Eighteen
20. Chapter Nineteen
21. Chapter Twenty
22. Chapter Twenty-One
23. Chapter Twenty-Two
24. Chapter Twenty-Three
25. Chapter Twenty-Four
26. Chapter Twenty-Five
27. Chapter Twenty-Six
28. Chapter Twenty-Seven
29. Chapter Twenty-Eight
30. Chapter Twenty-Nine
31. Chapter Thirty
32. Chapter Thirty-One
33. Chapter Thirty-Two
34. Chapter Thirty-Three
35. Chapter Thirty-Four
36. Chapter Thirty-Five
37. Chapter Thirty-Six
38. Chapter Thirty-Seven
39. Chapter Thirty-Eight
40. Chapter Thirty-Nine
41. Chapter Forty
42. Chapter Forty-One
43. Chapter Forty-Two
44. Chapter Forty-Three
45. Chapter Forty-Four
46. Chapter Forty-Five
47. Chapter Forty-Six
48. Chapter Forty-Seven
49. Chapter Forty-Eight
50. Epilogue
Author's Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
For those navigating their own loss and grief.
May we all remember to let a little light in,
even on the darkest days.
Mostly for Dad, who always believed in me, even when I didn't.
I wouldn’t be here without you. Thank you.
Prologue
Lucy
Dreams are a funny thing.
They grow and change as we do, but the dreams we have when we are younger are never really forgotten. They just morph into other things, or they go on the shelf with dreams that didn’t come true.
Some dreams are made with bright eyes as we stare up at the night sky.
While some are made late at night with tears rolling down our cheeks as we stare at the ceiling.
But the thing I love about humans is that, no matter how many broken hearts and shattered dreams, we don’t stop. Sure, it takes a little time, but one day we start to dream again—we start to want things again.
People say that the human heart is a fragile thing, but I don’t think that’s true. I think the human heart is the strongest organ in our body, because no matter how many times it’s shattered, it just keeps beating.
Something I have to remind myself of as I stand in the graveyard, trying not to have a full-blown panic attack. My hand is on my heart, a reminder that it is still beating—that I am fine. I look away from the black casket and up to the sky and take five deep breaths.
Deep breaths, Lucy. Just take five deep breaths and you’ll be okay, my dad’s voice echoes in my head.
“Lucy?” My mom takes my hand in hers.
I look at her—dark circles under her eyes and tears steadily rolling down her cheeks. I squeeze her hand and offer a small smile.
I’m fine.
I have to be fine.
“You have to throw the dirt on the casket,” she whispers.
Right.
I step forward and take a handful of dirt from the pan lying beside the grave and toss it on the shiny black casket. I purse my lips and step back, letting mom have her turn. I look away, focusing instead on the hundreds of headstones in the graveyard.
Dad would’ve hated this—he wasn’t one for attention—but I don’t say anything. I’ve learned that funerals aren’t for the dead, they’re for the living. They’re meant to be some sort of closure for those left behind to really say goodbye. But if you ask me, that’s all a bunch of bull.
You can’t say goodbye to someone whose heart isn’t beating.
You can’t say goodbye to someone who is already gone, you just suddenly have to live without them.
The preacher says the final remarks, but I don’t hear him. I haven’t heard a word he’s said since we stepped foot in the cemetery.
Mom starts to walk away, and everyone slowly begins to approach us—offering their condolences and hugs. I know most of these people will get in their cars and go back to their regular lives. A few will come back to our house, and a handful will stick around for a few minutes, giving that final goodbye.
I take a deep breath and stick my hands deeper into my coat and start walking. Mom says my name, but I just can’t be around these people right now. So, I keep walking, even though I have absolutely no idea where I’m going.
Not that I really care.
Death is an inevitable thing—I know that.
My father was a doctor. I’m no stranger to death, and I’m normally perfectly comfortable with the concept of my own mortality.
I also know that everyone has to suffer the loss of a parent. I just wasn’t expecting to have to suffer it at twenty-two.
And I most certainly wasn’t planning on suffering alone.
In my head, when I thought about losing a parent, I always pictured myself being older and having my own family to soften the blow—as awful as that sounds. The loss just seemed like it would be easier to handle with a hand to hold.
Yet here I am—twenty-two and alone—walking through a cemetery on the day of my father’s funeral.
My phone beeps and I take it out, seeing a text from my mom.
Mom: I’m heading home, are you riding with me, or will you be finding your own way home?
Lucy: I’ll find my own way; I won’t be long. I just need a minute.
Mom: I understand. Be careful, I love you.
Lucy: I will, love you too.
I slide my phone back in my coat pocket and keep walking until the cold burns my lungs. I find a bench at the edge of the cemetery, and as I sit down I tilt my head to the sky.
“I would say it was a beautiful service, but we both know I wasn’t paying attention and you didn’t even want a funeral. You wanted an urn and to be tossed into the sea on a god-awful, hot summer day. I’m sorry you didn’t get that, Dad,” I say to the sky.
“Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone be so blatantly honest about a funeral, especially one for a parent.”
“God!” I jump and whirl around to see a man in a brown Carhartt jacket and jeans standing a few feet behind me. “You really shouldn’t sneak up on someone in a cemetery. What if I had a gun or something?”
“Who brings a gun to a funeral?”
I shrug. “I don’t know, someone who’s either really twisted or really sad.”
“Or both.”
“Or both.” I agree.
“Do you have a gun?” He tilts his head to the side, studying me. He’s tall and has light brown hair and soft brown eyes. He’s probably a few years older than me, but he’s not dressed for a funeral. His voice is soft and gravely, sending chills down my spine.
“No,” I scoff. “What are you doing here?” I ask after a minute.
“Visiting. I wasn’t stalking you, or trying to sneak up on you, but my mom’s grave is a few feet to your left.” He nods his chin in the direction of a small grave. “I wasn’t going to disturb you, but then you started talking and I was just kind of shocked by the words coming out of your mouth.”
“Oh,” I say awkwardly. “I’m sorry if anything I said was offensive or if I’m ruining your visiting time. I’ll go.”
I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear and stand, turning to walk back up the hill, when it occurs to me—I’m going to have to Uber back to my house, or call someone to come pick me up.
“No, it’s okay. Really,” the man says. “I found it refreshing—your brutal honesty. The first few weeks after my mom died, everyone just kept talking about how great the service was, but I didn’t even remember it. I just remember watching them lower the casket in the ground and start burying it—burying her. But all anyone wanted to talk about was the service.”
I look up at him and realize he’s standing right in front of me now, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. I can’t help but notice his eyes, I guess they aren’t totally brown, but have flecks of gold and green in them. They’re nice.
“When did your mom die?” I ask.
“Five years ago, I was twenty.”
“I know this doesn’t help, but I’m sorry. I’m twenty-two, but I can’t imagine burying a parent at twenty. Still, I never thought I would have to deal with this kind of death so soon, you know?”
He nods, his eyes full of sympathy—but not in a pitying sort of way like I was used to—in
“Yeah, I know. My mom had cancer, so we knew it was coming. But it still sucked when it finally happened, even if we knew she wasn’t hurting anymore.”
I look away, back up the hill toward where they were burying my dad.
“My dad had a heart attack. He was. . .so healthy, or at least I thought he was. One second, he was fine, and the next he was on the ground holding his chest. It amazes me, how fast your life can change in just a matter of seconds.”
The man is quiet, but his eyes are studying me intently. He doesn’t move any closer, but he rakes a hand through his hair and lets out a deep breath. It’s cold enough outside that I can see the puff of air.
“You were there when it happened?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say with a nod, “we were sitting on the couch talking about college—about how stupid my professor had been that day. I’d said something sarcastic, he laughed, and then he just doubled over.”
“God, that sucks.” He blows out a breath. “My mom had been in the hospital for a week. My dad, sister, and I were all with her when she finally passed. My dad was a wreck and my sister curled up in a chair and sobbed. I just sat there holding my mom’s hand—I didn’t cry, didn’t scream. I didn’t feel much of anything, really.”
We were both quiet for a minute and then I looked back at him. “This sucks.”
He let out a huff of a laugh and I cracked a smile.
“It does suck,” he agrees. “I’m Wyatt.”
“Nice to meet you, Wyatt. I’m Lucy.”
He extends his hand and I shake it, offering him a small smile. He smiles back and slowly sticks his hand back in the pocket of his jacket.
“I should probably head back to my house, but thank you.”
Wyatt cocks his head to the side and furrows his brows together, “For what?”
I shrug. “For listening, and for not trying to make it better. For just…understanding.”
“You’re welcome.” He smiles—a real smile that makes his eyes crinkle a little at the corner. “Hey, if you ever need someone to listen, I come out here most Saturdays.”
“Thanks, maybe I’ll see you around.”
He nods and I start to walk back up the hill.
“Lucy?” He calls out.
“Yeah?”
“It’ll always suck, but it will eventually start to suck less.”
I smile a little. “Thanks.”
“Bye, Lucy.”
“Bye, Wyatt.”
I walk back up the hill and call my best friend, Allie. She picks up on the second ring, something she’s started doing since my dad died. Before, she never used to answer her phone.
“Lucy, where are you? Your mom is a little worried, but she’s trying to be calm because your house is freaking packed with people right now.”
“I’m still at the cemetery, I just needed a minute. Can you come pick me up?”
“I’m on my way out the door now, give me ten minutes.”
“Thanks, Allie.”
I hang up and walk over to my dad’s grave. As the snow begins to fall, I feel the tears prick at my eyes.
“God, you really would’ve hated this,” I whisper. “I don’t remember a time you didn’t complain about the first snow.”
I stare at the grave and my heart clenches in my chest. Part of me wants to scream and cry, but most of me is just numb. I feel the tears roll down my cheeks, but I don’t wipe them away, they’re proof that I’m feeling something. I take a few deep breaths and look away from the grave.
He will never see me graduate.
He will never meet the man I marry.
He will never walk me down the aisle.
He will never meet his grandchildren.
Suddenly, everything I ever wanted to do just feels completely insignificant and meaningless because what’s the point if I don’t have my dad to share it with? If he can’t be proud and say, “That’s my girl.”
I will never see his smile again.
I will never feel his arms around me again.
I will never meet someone who understands all of my obscure movie references again.
Who am I supposed to call when I can’t remember who sang a song, or what that movie was that we watched years ago that had that one guy in it we both thought was terrible?
I can’t breathe.
I can’t feel my heart beating.
Subconsciously, I know I am having a panic attack—I’ve had them before, and I know what one feels like, but I do not have my dad beside me to remind me to breathe—to just take a deep breath and put my hand to my heart to feel the steady rhythm.
To remind myself I’m alive.
“Lucy? Lucy!”
Allie is beside me, but I barely notice her as I gasp for air.
I need air.
She wraps her arms around me and cries.
“Breathe, Luce. You have to breathe,” she demands.
But I can’t.
My dad is dead.
I can’t do anything.
“Hey,” a steady, calm voice comes from my right. “Lucy.”
There’s a pair of not-quite-brown-but-not-quite-hazel eyes in front me.
Wyatt.
Wyatt is crouching down in front of me, his hands are on my shoulders.
“I need you to take some deep breaths with me, alright, Lucy? Watch me. Breathe in, now breathe out.” I keep my focus on his eyes, trying to do as he says.
“Good. We’re going to do that again, okay? Breathe in…and now breathe out. You’re doing great.” He smiles reassuringly as I breathe in and out, my eyes focusing on his.
“Let’s do it again, breathe in…breathe out. There you go. Breathe in…breathe out.”
We do that until Allie quietly says, “Ten.”
Wyatt looks at me intently and I nod, letting him know I am okay and can breathe on my own now. He stands up and offers me his hand, which I happily take.
“Thank you,” I say.
He shrugs and smiles a little. “Panic attacks are a rite of passage in the dead parent’s club.”
Allie gasps but I just stare at him for a half a second before I laugh. Like, really laugh, with my head tilted back and the good kind of tears prick at my eyes this time. He grins at me, and Allie just shakes her head.
“It’ll suck less one day, Lucy,” he says, “but until then, it’s gonna hurt all the time. Sometimes the hurt is more of an ache, and it’s bearable. Sometimes it’s like you just took a hammer to your chest. You’re going to be okay; it’s just going to…”
“Suck?” I interrupt.
He smirks. “Yeah.”
“I look forward to the day it starts to sucks less.”
“Me too.”
He makes sure I’m okay before walking away, and then it’s just me and Allie, and my dad’s grave. She doesn’t say anything as we start to walk to her car, and I’m honestly proud of her ability to not grill me until we get in her car.
“Okay,” she says, finally, “who was that?”
“Wyatt.”
“Wyatt who?”
I shrug. “We aren’t really on a last name basis.”
“But you’re on a help-me-not-die-from-a-panic-attack basis?”
“Apparently.”
Allie shakes her head and starts to pull out of the cemetery.
“He was kind of hot,” she states.
“Allie, we just left my father’s grave. I’m not really thinking about how hot the guy was.”
“But you did notice the hotness. That’s all I’m saying.”
I roll my eyes but look out the window to hide my smile.
Yeah, I noticed.
I take a minute and close my eyes, resting my forehead against the cool window. Allie’s blasting the heat, but it’s the middle of January and her car is cold. And despite the cool air, my hands are sweaty and I feel sweat on my spine from the panic attack.
The soft country music playing on the radio calms my racing heart and I breathe in deeply. I have no idea how I’m going to get through this. Wyatt’s easy smile comes to mind, so does his promise that one day this will suck less.
I’m not sure I believe him.
Chapter One
Lucy
Five Months Later
Grief is a funny thing. Some days I wake up and I feel perfectly fine—like my world wasn’t ripped out from under my feet a few months ago. Other days I can’t get out of bed because it’s all just too much, and nothing makes sense without him here. But most days I just kind of move around in a routine of feeling, but not really feeling.
