The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 288

Garrison carefully peeled back the tape and opened the box. No dust flew up—Lexi had clearly kept it immaculate.

At the top lay a few folded clothes: a white sweater, the inner lining of a dark blue windbreaker, and a pair of faded jeans. They were the most ordinary, even cheap, garments imaginable.

Beneath the clothes were scattered knick-knacks. A brown leather crossbody bag with tarnished hardware. A few basic makeup items, her water bottle, a fountain pen, swimming goggles.

A painful lump formed in Garrison's throat. There wasn't a single piece of jewelry in the box, not one item of value.

Yet, she was supposed to be the prestigious Mrs. Foster. She was Garrison Foster's wife!

He closed the lid, resting his hands on the sides of the box. He looked up at Lexi and said, "Thank you."

Lexi didn't reply immediately. She looked at him for a moment before standing up. "Wait here."

She turned and walked back into the bedroom. Garrison heard a closet door open, the glide of a drawer, and then Lexi's footsteps. They were slower this time, heavier, as if she were carrying something that demanded both hands.

She stepped out into the living room, cradling a cello against her chest.

"This was Sloane's most treasured possession. I imagine... you've seen it before," Lexi said. "Sloane told me that the first time you two met, she was carrying this exact cello."

Of course Garrison remembered. How could he forget the image of that girl, a cello strapped to her back, walking toward him?

She had just finished a performance, and he was drunk, dry-heaving outside a restroom.

She looked down, tracing her finger over the twine-wrapped handle.

"She told me that as long as she played this cello, she felt like her mother was still there. Listening from above."

Garrison reached out and took the cello. The case was heavier than he expected—perhaps weighed down by the crushing gravity of the memories it held.

He stared down at the meticulously bound handle. Sloane must have repaired it herself. He pictured her sitting alone in the dead of night, slowly and carefully wrapping the broken strap with twine.

Bound so tightly, so thickly, as if she were weaving all her unspoken grief and longing into every single loop...