Coming Home To You
Liesel Schmidt
When one door closes…Zoë and her fiancé Paul had everything ahead of them. So when Paul dies suddenly, Zoë doesn’t recognise the life she’s left with. Helping a friend by housesitting for a stranger is the last thing she wants to do – but she can’t deny that she needs time away from the memories which crowd her flat. So, collecting the keys, Zoë lets herself into her temporary home.…another one opens.Surrounded by a stranger’s belongings – his toothbrush, his favourite records, the pictures on his walls – Zoë begins to build a picture of the flat’s owner, Neil, who is away in the military. Driven by a need to know more, Zoë begins writing to Neil and finds herself feeling an unlikely connection with him. But while some people are destined to share our lives forever, others are sent simply to help us on the way. And for Zoë, a new life is just beginning…Proof that life can change in the most unexpected of ways, Coming Home to You is the superbly moving debut from Liesel Schmidt, perfect for fans of Cecilia Ahern and Jojo Moyes.
When one door closes…
Zoë and her fiancé Paul had everything ahead of them. So when Paul dies suddenly, Zoë doesn’t recognise the life she’s left with. Helping a friend by housesitting for a stranger is the last thing she wants to do – but she can’t deny that she needs time away from the memories which crowd her flat. So, collecting the keys, Zoë lets herself into her temporary home.
…another one opens.
Surrounded by a stranger’s belongings – his toothbrush, his favourite records, the pictures on his walls – Zoë begins to build a picture of the flat’s owner, Neil, who is away in the military. Driven by a need to know more, Zoë begins writing to Neil and finds herself feeling an unlikely connection with him. But while some people are destined to share our lives forever, others are sent simply to help us on the way. And for Zoë, a new life is just beginning…
Proof that life can change in the most unexpected of ways, Coming Home to You is the superbly moving debut from Liesel Schmidt, perfect for fans of Cecilia Ahern and Jojo Moyes.
Coming Home to You
Liesel Schmidt
Copyright (#u2b5a0e90-587a-5734-972a-38985ea5cb95)
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014
Copyright © Liesel Schmidt 2014
Liesel Schmidt asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © June 2014 ISBN: 9781474007757
Version date: 2018-07-23
LIESEL SCHMIDT lives in Pensacola, Florida, where she spends her time writing, drawing, and reading everything she can get her hands on. She is currently working on her next novel and spends most of her days busily writing freelance for a list of local magazines that sometimes keeps her head spinning in a dizzy attempt to keep all the deadlines straight! When she has a few free moments, Liesel plunks away at her blog, Finding Words (http://fyoword.blogspot.com/ (http://fyoword.blogspot.com/)), where she posts product reviews and offers her readers a peek at the inner musings of a writer slogging her way through the challenges of living a creative career and early-widowhood.
Having harbored a passionate dread of writing assignments when she was in school, Liesel never imagined that she would ever make a living at putting words on paper, but life sometimes has a funny way of working out… When she’s not writing, reading, or drawing, Liesel likes to indulge her guilty pleasure of watching competition television shows like Top Chef, Chopped, and Project Runway. Follow her on Twitter at @laswrites (http://twitter.com/laswrites)
To Jim – Thank you for believing in me enough to give my dreams wings. I hope I’ve made you proud.
To my family – Thank you for encouraging me all along the journey and giving me the confidence to never give up. You have all blessed me in more ways than you can ever imagine.
And thank you, most of all, to my faithful, loving God – who kept me going when nothing and no one else could.
Contents
Cover (#u00248cc0-4566-571f-a1af-b8552d01ca61)
Blurb (#u26941976-4c41-541e-a78c-89497b10d924)
Title Page (#u94516dd1-af77-56cc-9baa-4a039073b46d)
Copyright
Author Bio (#ub5867ed1-8c7f-533c-8763-b7ac5d63a9be)
Dedication (#u1bd40b35-e14d-5ced-b4f2-3866947be8f4)
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher
Prologue (#u2b5a0e90-587a-5734-972a-38985ea5cb95)
I have a camera I rarely use, simply for the fact that pictures seem too permanent. Some pictures are catalogues of happy times, but too many become reminders of things that have been lost – people and relationships and chances at happiness that seemed to have slipped through our fingers.
I sat on my bed that morning, checking for signs of life in my neglected camera, when there it was. A picture of him. Smiling without knowledge of the camera focused on his luminous grin and sparkling blue eyes. His fist proudly pumped the air, holding up the running medal he’d just been presented with. Frozen in time, in that moment of happiness, in that moment when everything in the world still seemed right.
And now nothing was.
Pictures like that become ghosts to haunt us, a sharp and jagged-edged pain that turns random moments in time into torture.
Torture because he was alive in my camera—bright and beaming and hopeful. In real life, though, in real-time, he would never smile like that again.
***
“You ready?” Paul asked, shielding his eyes and squinting into the blindingly bright Florida sunshine.
“Are you?” I returned, sounding slightly edgy in my nervousness.
As many times as I had done this, I never, ever got over the anxiousness I felt as I waited for the send-off. It always wreaked havoc on my bladder, which only seemed to back up my theory that God had a special place in heaven reserved for the makers of port-a-potties and antibacterial hand gel.
Paul leveled his gaze at me, confident. He nodded and grinned.
“Yup. All set.”
He shook out a kink in his neck, loosening up one last time.
“What kind of time are you gonna do it in?” he shouted at me, fighting to be heard above the din around us, all the other people chattering while we waited for this race to start.
“Why does it matter?” I shot back, feeling a twinge of annoyance at the question.
I always did my best, but I was never sure exactly what my best was going to be. I hated to be pigeon-holed, just in case it was a bad morning. Just in case my feet weren’t as swift as I’d like.
“Why? Because I don’t want to marry a slow woman, that’s why!” An impish grin broke out on his flushed face, his blue eyes glowing with excitement.
“What?”
“I said I won’t marry a slow woman!” he shouted again, catching the attention of everyone within earshot.
“Well, then, I guess I’ll have to run a pretty damn good race!” I shrieked, jumping into his arms.
“We’re going to have a ten-second delay for the walkers,” a voice announced loudly through a megaphone, completely unaware of the way my future had just been changed.
“Am I hearing things, or did you just propose?” I stopped gazing into Paul’s eyes long enough to find the source of the question. His friend Sam was staring at us, wide-eyed with mock surprise.
“Seriously, man, it’s about time and all, but I hate to tell you…you just handed me this race!” Sam grinned wickedly as the air horn went off, releasing all the runners from their frenzied state of suspended animation.
“I sincerely doubt that, Fleming!” Paul tossed back, breaking into a run that would have robbed most people of every ounce of energy after only a short sprint.
Sometimes the man truly amazed me.
Actually, the man always truly amazed me.
And for reasons totally eluding me, Paul Benson was truly, deeply, I’ll-be-yours-forever in love with me.
I broke into my own run, trying like hell to concentrate on my breathing, to get my heart rate under control and wipe my mind of everything except this moment and this race. I was so happy, though, it was hard not to have a cloudy head.
I ran hard and strong, my competitive streak taking possession of my brain and my body, erasing every other thought beyond this race. I barely saw the turns and hills, only vaguely noticed the faces of the other people I passed as I sailed through the course and toward the finish line. The familiar landscape and buildings of downtown Pensacola blurred together in a rush, so focused was all my energy on this last sprint.
Victory was going to be mine.
I could taste it, I could smell it, and I could hear it. I neared the chute and the crowds of waiting watchers, people cheering and the announcer calling out names and race numbers as runners crossed the line.
“Go, Zoë, go! Come on, you can do it!” I heard from somewhere to my left.
I knew so many people at these things that identifying the source was nearly impossible.
There was an excited chaos—clapping, cheering, all the normal sounds of a race. And rising from somewhere above the indistinguishable soup of sounds, a group of voices unified and solidified into one.
“Say yes! Say yes!” Over and over it came, thunderous like a battle cry; and soon the small group of voices became innumerable.
I ran through the chute, past the announcer and the overhead electronic clock that seemed to spill each second. The chanting grew louder and louder, and I finally realized what they were saying and who they were saying it to.
It was for me.
I bent forward, leaning on my thighs as I tried to catch my breath. I closed my eyes against the sweat making a hasty trail down my face and breathed deeply, my heart still racing from the exertion and the excitement. When I straightened and opened my eyes, they were filled by the sight of Paul—down on one knee in front of me.
Sweaty, shirtless, and wind-blown, he looked up at me with eyes that seemed to sparkle brighter than I’d ever seen them. He reached into the tiny front key pocket of his running shorts and pulled out a ring, smiling. Expectantly, nervously, unabashedly smiling—like a little boy at Christmas.
My heart was melting and overflowing and exploding all at the same time.
“Zoë Evangeline Trent,” he said, his voice barely audible above all the noise around us. “Will you marry me?”
Maybe I was still trying to catch my breath.
Maybe it was shock that this was truly happening.
But at that moment, I couldn’t even find words. The salt of the sweat I had tried so hard to keep out of my eyes ran together with the salt of tears, and all I could do was reach out and fall into Paul’s waiting arms.
He rose up and held me long and tight—tight enough to leave me breathless.
Finally, I found my breath and my words, and I pulled back to look at him. Everything else melted into a foggy haze as I looked into those cool blue eyes.
“Yes,” I said, nodding as fresh tears pooled and blinded me. “Yes, yes, yes,” I whispered again. “Yes, I’ll marry you.” The words came louder and stronger, and a raucous whoop rose up from the crowd that had gathered around us.
“Now give the woman a kiss, you idiot!” Sam bellowed, pushing his way to the front of the fray.
I smiled at Paul, and he smiled back—his crinkled eyes and crooked grin the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen. The kiss that followed was full-bodied and passionate, heady and electric and consuming. One that set my heart on fire and seemed to blaze a trail all the way down to my toes. I could taste the salt on his lips, a remnant of race sweat, as he pulled me tighter and tighter to his chest and lifted me off the ground. The rest of the world washed away, the noise around us muted to a barely audible whisper. It was our moment, our feeling—and the fact that other people were around became an insignificant detail.
I could have stayed like that forever, locked in that embrace and in that kiss.
This time was ours to claim.
Our beginning.
Our end.
Chapter 1 (#u2b5a0e90-587a-5734-972a-38985ea5cb95)
The swish swish swish of my windshield wipers against the rain was almost hypnotizing. All of the colors and figures outside the car were softened into an impressionistic painting that moved as I stared at everything, seeing nothing. The traffic light flicked from red to green, but I didn’t register the change, didn’t notice the cars in the lane next to me start to inch forward.
The cars in line behind me honked, snapping me out of my daze.
Daze.
It would have been nice if it had been that simple. I wasn’t quite sure what the word for it at that point would have been. What could you call the total sense of loss, the lack of desire to go on living that accompanies the death of the only person you’ve ever truly loved? The feeling is too overwhelming and complicated to be confined simply to one word.
But that was what I was trying to define.
To my family, to my friends, to my boss.
To myself.
Maybe if I could define it, I could find out how to change it. Maybe if I could define it, I could fix it.
I blinked against the tears that seemed a constant, dormant presence that lay just under the surface and put my foot on the gas.
“Oh, get over it, lady,” I muttered at the woman behind me, registering her aggressive presence in my rearview mirror. She gestured wildly for me to move my beat-up Hyundai, swiftly swerving her sleek Porsche into the other lane as soon as a sliver of space opened up. As she sped past, she made sure she caught a long enough look at me to communicate her displeasure. I smiled mirthlessly at her as she glowered, her sharply-tweezed eyebrows punctuating the sour look she was so intent on giving me.
I’m often amazed at how angry people get at other drivers in traffic. As though they were intentionally being slighted or inconvenienced by the other people occupying the road; as though their destination, their agenda was so much more important than anyone else’s. As though there weren’t so many more important things to worry about, like whether they’d had an argument with someone before they walked out the door.
Or whether they’d kissed anyone good-bye.
Whether they’d remembered to say, “I love you.”
I looked at the engagement ring on my finger, a sparkling reminder of what I’d lost. It was ironic. Something so bright and beautiful, an announcement of togetherness and future, was for me almost as cutting as a knife. I still wore it because it felt wrong not to, like taking it off would be denying the man I had loved so much for so long.
There were times I wanted to forget all of it, forget all the happiness so that maybe I would be able to forget how empty I now felt. There were times I wanted to take the ring off of my finger and never look at it again. Never catch another glimpse of my left hand to be given a fresh reminder that Paul wasn’t there anymore and that there would never be a wedding ring to complete the circle.
It had been nine months.
Nine long, agonizing months that I could barely recall.
They were a blur of tears and paperwork and a million faces I’d never seen before all telling me how sorry they were for my loss. I felt as though I’d been on one of those stupid merry-go-rounds at the playground that’s spun too fast, and looking at anything makes you sick.
Nine months.
I still felt as though it had happened an hour ago, that I’d just picked up the phone to hear that Paul was dead, that he’d ruptured an aneurism in his brain. We’d never even known it was there.
I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to feel after nine months. Was there a timeline for pain? Was there some magic number of days or months or years that, once reached, won passage into a less agonizing existence?
I couldn’t compare notes—Sam had disappeared in a puff of smoke, walking out of my life without a second look back, a shock that felt like another death. And it was, to some degree. I had considered him a friend, a devoted sidekick to Paul. Out of anyone, I would have expected him to stick by my side and share in my pain.
As I soon learned, there were many people in the rotating doors of life, quick to pass in and out without explanation. Even Paul’s parents had taken that quick spin to the Exit. Not that that would have surprised anyone familiar with Paul’s relationship with them. They were non-entities, barely skirting around the edges of his life—by their choice, not his. Paul had been their trophy child, the checklist item they had successfully crossed off, only to leave him to be the responsibility of a string of nannies and boarding schools. There had been no love lost in life, and it certainly hadn’t been found in his death.
My relationship with my own parents was in direct opposition to that, and it was one that Paul had often envied. Mine was a family large in love, even if it was small in size. We, the Trent Trio, had always been close. When Paul had died, my parents were the first on my doorstep, quickly wrapping me in their arms and their love and hardly letting me go until they’d had to leave to head back to their home in Birmingham. Five hours’ worth of road time had, in the past nine months, become an eternity away.
Nine months that slithered with loneliness and reminders.
I wanted to be able to turn the corner and not feel as though I was going to collapse into a massive heap of tears if I had to walk past our favorite restaurant. I wanted to be able to see a Liberty Blue Dodge Ram without that unconscious flash of hope that Paul might be behind the wheel. I wanted to be able to walk past the shaving aisle in Wal-Mart and not have to face the crushing realization that I would never again hear Paul on the phone asking me to pick up his shaving cream if I was stopping there on my way home.
I still felt ragged, broken. And the fact that I couldn’t pin-point an end to this feeling made it seem even more consuming, more hopeless somehow.
There is no expiration date for grief.
I pulled into my parking spot, finally home after another day at work I barely remembered. Another day of keeping books and punching numbers for clients I never saw. My days seemed to run on auto pilot, in part for self-preservation and in part because I had truly lost interest.
Work was just something I did, something that filled up eight hours of my day so that I wouldn’t have to think about other things. I wasn’t even sure how well I did it anymore.
And, to be perfectly honest, I really didn’t care.
I didn’t have the energy to care. There was too much involved in just keeping it all together during those hours at the office, when I slipped the “normal” mask in place—the one that talked and interacted with my coworkers as though I was fine. As though I was doing a spectacular job of moving past my fiancé’s death and rebuilding a life on my own, just as I should have been. And it was exhausting. The modicum of perfection I was trying so hard to preserve took so much concentration, sometimes I felt as though my head would explode. But better that than admit to the fact that I had failed so miserably at moving on, that I was still flat on my back after being knocked down.
“Get over it,” I muttered again, just as I had to the woman in traffic.
Only this time, I was speaking to myself.
I rested my head on the steering wheel, closing my eyes and listening to the sound of the rain pelting the windshield and the roof of my car, the purring sound of the engine as it idled. I didn’t even listen to the radio anymore. I wasn’t sure I could handle hearing songs that reminded me of him.
My cell phone trilled inside my purse, breaking the spell. I lifted my head and glared at the bag resting beside me on the passenger seat. Who would be calling me? My phone rarely rang anymore; people seemed afraid to talk to me. I wasn’t sure if they thought I was too fragile to carry on a conversation, or if they were absurdly afraid that death was contagious. Whatever the reason, I was too drained to be offended. It was actually almost a relief. There comes a certain point that having to say, “I’m fine,” one more time becomes an agony in itself, when you’d rather avoid the sympathetic looks that everyone gives you when they hear what happened.
The phone continued to ring as I rifled through the contents of my over-stuffed purse. I was curious by now at who it might be, who might dare risk calling the grief-stricken pseudo-widow.
That’s what I was.
Not quite a wife, not quite a widow.
I was without definition.
I found my phone and hastily flipped it open, not even bothering to check the caller ID.
“Hello?” I croaked.
“Zoë? Is that you?”
“Kate?” I wasn’t sure, but it sounded like her.
Kate, who’d been my best friend since the third grade and had been there for every major event in my life.
Every one except this one.
“I’m on my way, Zoë. I’m here,” she said so quietly it was almost a whisper.
Hearing her reminded me of how much I had missed her, and not having her to lean on these past months had left me feeling even more alone. I knew that if she could have been there with me, she would have. She would have dropped everything and come running the minute she heard.
Simpler said than done, though. Kate had spent the last year in Africa doing relief work, living in poor, dangerous conditions that afforded few luxuries and complicated travel. She hadn’t been able to come home for Paul’s memorial, but we’d written to each other constantly. She gave me every bit of support possible, but I still missed her like crazy.
Technically, she wasn’t quite home yet, but she was at least finally back in the country. She’d dialed my number the minute her plane had touched down at LaGuardia, her first domestic stop in the long succession of airports and layovers that was to come over the next hours. Knowing Kate, she probably hadn’t even waited until the stewardess had granted permission for cell phones to be turned back on.
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
“Just come over.” It was all I could manage without crying.
Kate and I had met in the third grade, after one of the sadistic little boys in my class decided he liked the contents of my lunchbox more than his and attempted to lay claim to them. Fortunately for me, Kate’s innate sense of seeking justice for the underdog had kicked in early, and she came to my rescue. The freckle-faced little pipsqueak never even saw it coming. One minute, he was twisting my arm behind my back in an effort to persuade me of the merits of relinquishing my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The next, he was flat on his back with a bloody nose and one hum-dinger of a black eye.
The mean right hook was a move she’d learned from one of her five older brothers, while her self-appointed role of school-ground superhero seemed an attempt to mirror the values that her parents had been trying to teach her. I’d always known she would pursue that fierce passion and channel it to do something important with her life; but, on that day, she was my guardian angel.
Over the next two decades, Kate and I took our cafeteria meeting and cemented our bond to become closer than the sisters we’d each always dreamed of having. My house became her house, her house became mine. Had we been able to occupy the exact same space at the exact same time, we would have been one person, and sometimes I think our parents forgot which kid belonged where.
We differed in so many ways that our friendship might have given other people pause. Not only in personality, but also in physicality. While I was small-boned and athletic, Kate was tall and regal, even as a child. My light brown curls were in direct opposition to the thick blonde mane that cascaded down her back like hair in an expensive shampoo commercial, my large green eyes like foliage to be watered in the wash of her impossibly bright blue ones. I maintained an “athletic” build, never managing to fill out my bras, while Kate could rock a 34C like nobody’s business.
When boys entered the picture, none was allowed access to the inner realm unless approved by the uninterested party and a rigorous battery of tests was passed. After high school, we moved in together and pursued our respective futures at local colleges instead of flitting off to far-flung universities that would strain both our finances and our relationship. Despite the fact that we knew life might eventually send us off in different directions, we were determined to walk the road side by side as long as we possibly could.
The year after graduation proved to be the beginning of our diverging paths. Kate enthusiastically signed on with Oxfam, while I fell into a job at an area accounting firm. She was active while I was complacent. She had a passion while I had a job, and I would have been lying if I said there wasn’t part of me that was more than just a little bit jealous that she knew what she wanted from life and wasn’t afraid to go after it.
Kate was everything I wanted to be when I grew up.
Just without the running off to third world, impoverished, and war-torn countries part.
I was a little too fond of indoor plumbing and other modern conveniences.
Kate had loved Paul the minute she met him, nicknaming him “Six” and telling everyone he was the sixth brother she’d never known she always wanted. Her work with Oxfam and various other programs kept her traveling, so she didn’t have much opportunity to spend time with us; but the time we did share, no one seemed out of place or ill at ease. Everyone fit together as seamlessly and easily as though they had known each other for years instead of the brief period that it truly had been. Even Paul’s best friend Sam had met with her approval, and I’d briefly entertained the thought that the two of them might one day end up together, making us all one big happy family. A relationship like that, though, would have needed more of a foundation than merely the week-long visit she’d had with us during the two years Paul and I had been together.
Despite the miles and the time apart, though, Kate and I had kept our friendship as strong as possible, never allowing contact to lapse—even when we had to resort to book-length letters sent through the slowly moving channels of regular mail. Paul’s death had been a devastating shock to Kate, as well, since the two of them had become close through their own exchange of letters.
And now, she was finally coming home.
Chapter 2 (#u2b5a0e90-587a-5734-972a-38985ea5cb95)
I woke the next morning to the sound of my alarm clock, a wretched, wrenching, jarring sound that seemed to be a cross between a school bell and a fire alarm. It was the first of my five alarms to go off, each set at three-minute intervals so that oversleeping was made nearly impossible.
I opened my eyes to glare at the glowing digital numbers and smacked the snooze button.
It was Saturday, not that it really made that much difference to me anymore. Saturdays were just another day to survive like all the rest.
I rolled out of bed, barely managing to escape landing in an ungraceful heap on the floor, all tangled up in my sheets. I hadn’t slept well last night, though that hardly proved different from any other night. There was a decided difference in things, though—I felt different. I felt tired of it.
I shuffled into the bathroom to grab my morning handful of vitamins and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked like death.
“Good morning, beautiful,” I said sarcastically to the unrecognizable face I saw staring back at me. I looked haggard. My skin was dull, my eyes were puffy, and I was desperately in need of a haircut. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d had one. What had happened to the woman Paul had fallen in love with? I wondered if maybe she had died with him.
I felt as though she had.
I felt as though I was an empty shell, completely unsure of what to do and who I was anymore.
I was still standing in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection but not really seeing anything, when the buzzer sounded. I was startled out of my near-catatonic state and propelled myself out of the bathroom, away from the image of the pathetic woman in the mirror.
“Yes?” I asked into the little white intercom box by my front door.
“It’s Kate,” it crackled back at me.
Two seconds later, she was at my door, crushing my bones as she hugged me.
“Let me look at you,” she said, taking my hands in hers and stepping back. “You look terrible, Zoë,” she clucked, shaking her head.
It was an understatement, to say the least.
“You wouldn’t exactly win any beauty contests, either,” I shot back, taking in her disheveled appearance.
And she wouldn’t have. Her blonde hair carried several days’ worth of wear and tear, pulled into a messy ponytail at the nape of her neck. Her normally bright, lively blue eyes were dulled by exhaustion, rimmed with dark smudges of mascara.
“Darn,” she laughed back, “and I even went to the trouble of buying mascara at the airport so I could look all gorgeous for my grand entrance. Girl, don’t get me started on how much they charge for a tube of Great Lash.”
“Next time, get the waterproof kind,” I advised soberly as I reached into one of the large red ceramic vases flanking the doorway and retrieved a fistful of Kleenex.
“Wow,” Kate laughed as she took a proffered tissue from me. “What else do you have in there?”
“Oh, you know, just the usual. Tissues, chocolate. Tequila.”
Her eyes widened. “Really?”
“No!” I burbled, wiping my nose.
I realized it was the first time I’d been able to laugh since Paul died. It felt good, though somehow strange after all these months without it.
But I felt guilty, too.
“Just tissues. I have them all over the place in case I need them. And I seem to need them a lot,” I said, my eyes welling up again.
Kate smiled sadly at me. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Two words that meant so many things.
I nodded back, feeling my face start to crumple into a full-blown sob. I didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to cry any more over it. But here she was, finally—my best friend, my confidante, my sister from another mister.
“Can I tell you something, Zoë?” Kate asked.
We sat in the living room, me in my pajamas, a freshly showered Kate wrapped in one of my spare bathrobes. Having each devoured a large bowl of cereal, we were now drinking coffee in what seemed to be a futile effort to inject a little more energy into our tired bodies.
I took a long sip of coffee, eyeing her speculatively.
“Anything, Kate. You know that.”
She bit her lip and looked deep into her coffee cup, hesitant and trying to piece her words together carefully.
Even my best friend was tiptoeing around me now.
“Kate,” I said quietly. “Please don’t humor me. You’re the last person on earth who’s supposed to humor me. Don’t treat me like a damaged girl who has to be handled as though she’s made of glass. I’m so sick of that.”
She nodded, looking squarely at me.
“I think you need to move,” she said finally.
It hung in the air, heavy and dense like a fog, so quiet was the room when she spoke.
It was the last thing I had expected her to say.
I blinked at her.
“What?” I asked.
“I think you need to move,” she said again, reaching out to put her half-empty cup of coffee on the table next to her.
“Why?” I was still so surprised that I was only able to form one-word questions.
Why on earth would she think I needed to lose anything else?
“This apartment may be in your name, Zoë, but it was practically yours and Paul’s. This is the building you both lived in, this is the apartment where the two of you spent most of your time. And now, Paul is gone, and you just exist here. You need to find a new place to claim as yours, Zoë. Paul would want that.” She was looking at me now with pleading eyes, concern etched on her face as plainly as if it had been written there in ink.
I didn’t know what to say or even what to feel. Part of me thought she might be right, but the larger part of me wanted to lash out at her for wanting to take more away from me than what I’d already lost.
This was the last thing I had, one of the last ways I felt connected to Paul.
Was I really supposed to give that up?
And did she really think it was that simple? Could she really be so naïve as to think it was that easily solved? Was it possible that she could be that callous?
I just stared at her dumbly, thousands of things shooting though my mind, thousands of feelings running through me. It was almost like being electrocuted.
One of those rapid-fire feelings must have stopped long enough to take hold, because I was shaking my head wildly before I’d even registered that I was doing it.
I shot up from my place on the couch, moving as though it was on fire.
I felt as though it was on fire.
“Zoë,” Kate started, looking up at me as I stood there, motionless in front of the couch.
“No,” I protested. “No, Kate.” I shook my head. “Don’t tell me what Paul would have wanted.” I felt almost angry now.
She was my best friend, so how could she say something so thoughtless? She had no idea what Paul would or wouldn’t have wanted.
No one did. And no one would. How dare she try to tell me something and use Paul as a mechanizing method? He wasn’t something to be used as leverage.
Why the hell would she say something like that?
“Don’t be angry with me for saying it, Zoë. I know it’s not something that’s easy to hear, but I think this place might be keeping you trapped in your grief. You need to get out of here so that you can start to move on, start a healing process. It would be healthier for you.” She was speaking very quietly, no longer looking at me.
I felt my eyes widen.
“Don’t you dare come back here after a year away and spout psychological mumbo-jumbo at me, Kate. Don’t you dare. You can’t do that. You can’t just waltz back in and act like nothing’s changed, like you have all the answers to solve everyone’s problems. I know Paul’s gone, and I’m supposed to get on with my life. Has it crossed your mind at all that maybe it’s not quite so simple?” The pitch of my voice was increasing as I spoke, and I was on the verge of angry tears.
It was quite a change.
Angry tears felt very different from grief tears. They felt hot and good and…cleansing.
“I knew it. I knew you would be angry at me,” she said. “Admit it—you’re angry at me for not being here for you.”
She waited a beat for me to do something, to respond somehow.
“Come on, Zoë. I know you are. You have to be, and you have every right to be. I wasn’t here for you when you needed someone the most, and now I’m coming back and telling you to uproot yourself from the last place you feel somewhat stable. But this,” she spread her arms to gesture at the room, “this is not stable.”
She got up from the couch and moved toward me. She took my face in her hands and locked her eyes with mine.
“You lost something irreplaceable, and I have no idea how you feel. I’m not going to stand here and tell you that I do, because I have absolutely no clue. I hope I never have to feel what you’ve felt for the past nine months, and I wish I could erase it all so you never had to go through any of this. But I can’t. All I can do is say that I’m sorry, and I love you, and I want what’s best for you.”
Her sad eyes were piercing mine, searching for some hint that she was getting through to me.
“This can only destroy you if you let it, Zoë. Please don’t let it.” She looked on the verge of tears. “Please,” she said again.
I felt gripped by fear.
Where would I go if I didn’t live here?
I pulled away from her and turned to look out the window.
My window.
The window I rimmed in Christmas lights every year.
The window I always looked through to see if Paul’s truck was in its spot.
I didn’t think I could survive the process of finding somewhere new, sorting through all of the things in my apartment—all of the memories—and boxing them up.
Not yet. I wasn’t ready for that yet. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be ready for that.
“I’d tell you to move in with me, but I don’t even have a place. I’m staying with my parents until it’s time for—” She stopped abruptly.
“Time for what, Kate?” I asked, whirling around to look at her.
I felt a knot form in my stomach at the sight of her pained expression, and I knew I wasn’t going to like what she had to say.
“I really didn’t want to have to tell you this yet. I wanted to have some time with you, to talk and catch up, let things settle. But I guess I’m going to have to say it now,” she sighed. “I’m taking a job in Atlanta next month. There’s a company up there that works closely with relief efforts in third world countries, and they’ve tapped me to be their director of research.”
It was something she’d always wanted to do, what she’d worked for as long as I could remember. But right now any happiness I felt for her was overshadowed by the feeling of absolute abandonment.
It was like a sucker-punch.
“What? A month?” I knew my voice was registering my displeasure, but I couldn’t help it.
She had just gotten here, and now she was telling me that she was leaving? How was I supposed to react to that? What had happened to being there for each other?
“I know, it’s very soon, but they needed me right away. They’re trying to get moving on some really big projects, and the research that I do is pivotal to their being able to get the funds they need.”
She looked excited, then seemed to remember that it meant leaving me.
Again.
I closed my eyes to keep the room from spinning out of control.
“I want to be happy for you, Kate. I really do,” I whispered, my eyes still closed. “But I can’t.” I felt the sting of tears that I didn’t want, felt my nose burn. “I feel so alone. And even though you’re here now, you’re not.”
There was nothing she could say to that, because she knew that it was true.
Chapter 3 (#u2b5a0e90-587a-5734-972a-38985ea5cb95)
It was late afternoon, a time seemingly shared by all citizens of the universe in their primal need for caffeine, and a typical Sunday in the city was no exception. The coffee house down the street from my apartment was packed to bursting, its clientele running the gamut from coffee house junkies to those whose relationship with coffee was a mere dalliance.
I would have fallen into the category of junkie, though my need was not so much to feed a caffeine addiction as it was for a haven.
Buzzing Beans had opened six months ago, three months after I’d lost Paul. It had become a place I could go without fear of remembering some conversation we’d had there or regular appearances together that made these people realize that I was only half of a pair.
Here, there was no Paul and Zoë.
There was simply Zoë, the sad looking woman with curly brown hair who came in practically every day and always ordered the same thing.
Zoë, who always seemed as though she only vaguely remembered what happy used to feel like.
Here, within the walls of Buzzing Beans, I had found a second home. Ray, proud owner and head bean-pusher, had even become a brotherly presence in my life. He watched over me without ever prying for details I wasn’t ready to give, offering me his own brand of comfort with each cup of coffee he served. My drink was always ready for me by the time I walked up to the register, and Ray always refused payment. Suffice it to say, his tip jar reaped the benefits.
I took Kate there that afternoon in an attempt to escape my apartment and the tension I felt so thickly gathered there. Since her arrival on my doorstep the day before, she’d spent practically every moment glued to my side, with the exception of a quick trip back to her parents’ house to drop off all her things and visit for a few hours. I knew that this was just her initial knee-jerk reaction to having been gone so long and her fear that I really was as fragile as everyone seemed to think.
I would have thought my best friend knew me better than that, that she would have had confidence enough in my survival skills to know that I would eventually get through this a much stronger, self-reliant woman.
But not even I had that confidence.
How could I, when I felt so broken?
In moments of clarity, I could recognize the fact that I had allowed myself to slip into a deep depression, that I needed to find some way out of it. But I had no idea how, other than spilling my guts in a therapist’s office for an hour every week or shoveling pills down my throat. Neither option was something I really wanted to have to explore.
“Hey, Zoë, who’s the pretty lady?” Ray asked, bouncing up on his toes as he stood behind the counter.
“Nice greeting,” I replied with a light edge of scolding. “This is my best friend, Kate. Kate, this is Ray.”
“Nice to meet you, Ray,” she said, offering him a sweet smile. “Zoë’s been singing your praises all day. And I can’t thank you enough for watching out for her while I was away.”
Kate’s smile, I noticed, seemed to grow even wider as she spoke. I hadn’t really been giving him nearly as many accolades as she was implying. True, I’d told her how great he’d been to me over the past few months and that he had become a self-appointed watchdog of sorts, but…
I flushed with embarrassment, hoping Ray wasn’t getting the wrong impression.
“No problem,” Ray replied, waving away Kate’s thanks. “I’ve heard a lot about you, too, Kate. It’s nice to finally have a face to put with the name, and hopefully I’ll see more of you before you leave…” He trailed off, looking at me.
“So, um, Ray,” Kate began, clearing her throat. “What’s good here?”
“Good?” he repeated, shaking his head in mock disgust. “We don’t do good here. Good is for sub-par, nameless-faceless-on-every-street-corner-in-the-world coffee shops.” He paused for dramatic effect. And possibly to catch his breath. “We do excellent.”
The rest of the exchange was a blur of drowned-out words and movements, an event I was only physically part of. It was the same way I lived most moments of my life lately, like being underwater in a pool and looking up at the people standing at the edge of it. You can hear talking and see images, but nothing makes complete sense.
“Zoë, did you hear that?”
I blinked rapidly, breaking through the surface of the water.
“What? I’m sorry,” I said, thinking I must have looked a complete idiot. I shook my head. “No, I missed what you said.”
Kate looked at me for a long moment, trying to get a read on me.
“Ray says he has a buddy who’s going to be out of the country for the next nine months and needs a house-sitter while he’s away.” Her eyes widened with excitement. “Isn’t that interesting?” she prompted.
Apparently, it was much more interesting to her than it was to me. Or I was just completely missing something here. How on earth was this relevant to me?
She continued, looking intently at me for some sign of comprehension. She was going to be sorely disappointed, though, because I wasn’t getting it even enough to fake that I was getting it.
“You know—take care of the place, live there with only utilities to pay. Of course, his stuff will basically all still be there. The whole point of this is that he doesn’t want to have to deal with the hassle of renters, but he also doesn’t want to have to worry about the house sitting vacant for so long.”
I was still looking at her quite blankly.
Clearly, I must still be missing something.
Ray apparently picked up on my confusion and took pity on me. He stroked his closely clipped, chestnut-colored beard and leaned conspiratorially close.
“I think she thinks you should consider doing him a favor and taking the worry of the house off his hands,” he whispered loudly.
I raised an eyebrow and looked from Ray to Kate and back again to Ray.
“You two are both nuts,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief. “Insane. This guy’s never met me. How would me being in his house be ‘doing him a favor?’” I asked, making air quotes with my fingers.
Ray straightened and pulled his most serious face. It was almost comical.
“Neil and I have been friends since we were ten, and he takes my opinion of people very seriously. If I told him I found someone I thought would be a perfect person to have staying in his house, believe me—he wouldn’t think twice about letting you stay there. He’s got plenty of other worries right now just trying to get all of his stuff together to go. Taking this off his shoulders would be a big relief to him.” He smiled at me. “Besides, then I’d be able to keep a closer eye on you after Kate here leaves to go live up in Hot-lanta.”
I turned to Kate and gave her my best withering look.
“What’s this, you know him for five minutes and already you’ve got him brainwashed to be on your side?”
My death stare moved to Ray.
“What happened to loyalty?” I asked, feigning disgust and shaking my head.
I felt inexplicably as if I might be staring in the face of an unexpected opportunity, and there was an undercurrent of excitement running through me. But it had been so long since I’d felt anything of the sort that it was almost a foreign sensation.
Unidentifiable, confusing.
A little bit scary, even.
Ray shot me a wounded look.
“I am loyal to a fault. To. A. Fault,” he said solemnly. “In fact, Loyalty is my middle name. I just happen to think that Kate here is absolutely right, and you need to move.”
His head moved up and down in a slow nod, his dark hair flopping into his eyes.
Kate shot me a See? look, to which I responded with another cocked-eyebrow scowl.
I couldn’t take this anymore. I needed to get out of there, away from the pressure I suddenly felt piling on me. I knew they both meant well, knew that both of them only wanted the best for me. But I also knew that Kate was trying to rush me into doing something I didn’t feel ready for, that Ray didn’t have nearly all the pieces of the puzzle.
He didn’t know why I came in so often looking as though I was in mourning.
He’d never asked, and I’d never told him.
I couldn’t bear the thought of having his pity.
“I—” I started, feeling my chest tighten as though someone was sitting on it.
And then I walked out, away from the smell of coffee and the suffocating feeling that I was having my last shred of control taken away from me.
It’s amazing how quickly fear can turn a glimmer of hope into the headlights of an oncoming train.
Chapter 4 (#u2b5a0e90-587a-5734-972a-38985ea5cb95)
It was time.
It was time, and I could do this.
I was doing this.
Millions of people all over the world did this every day without giving it a second thought, yet here I was—paralyzed.
I was standing in line at the movie theater, alone.
All alone.
In a long, snake-like line of people that seemed to have no end.
Alone.
In line to buy a single ticket to sit alone in a darkened theater full of people who didn’t give me a thought.
All alone.
Did I really want to do this?
No, Zoë, you don’t. But you also don’t want to have to spend the rest of your life without ever going to see a movie in the theater. It wasn’t fair to put those kinds of restrictions on my life. After all, there was no guarantee.
No guarantee that I would find a friend to go with me. No guarantee that I would ever have someone—my someone—to sit with me through a movie, holding my hand or draping an arm cozily around my shoulders.
So it was time to do this, to take the step and get it over with. To acknowledge all the grown-up facts of life: life goes on, and this was simply a movie. Nothing to be afraid of.
Right?
“Please tell me you have a box of Goobers in that gigantic purse of yours, or I’m going to have to conclude that you are a complete theater novice.” There was a familiar voice behind me, so startling that at first I couldn’t place the speaker. I felt a rush of relief that warmed me almost to my toes, an unexpected surge of emotion that tickled my nose with tears. An uncontrollable grin broke my focused scowl, and I turned around to face Ray.
Ray, my unexpected savior. There was absolutely nothing even remotely romantic between us, but at that moment, I could have kissed him. The simple sight of him made me want to clap my hands in childish glee.
“What are you doing here?”
I realized the pitch of my voice was borderline squeal, but I couldn’t help it. My relief was indescribable; and grown-up, composed Zoë did a swan dive right off the top of the theater marquee into the kiddie pool. If I didn’t watch it, I might actually grab his hands and start jumping up and down like a sugared-up tween at a boy band concert.
Not exactly the image I wanted to portray. I realized far too late that my reaction to seeing him here, at the theater, was illogical. It was probably a one-in-a-million shot that we had chosen the same movie, so our encounter was not only chance, but very likely only fleeting.
Maybe he was meeting a date.
“I had the evening off, so I thought I’d try to catch a movie.” He paused and flicked a glance at the movie schedule posted in the box office window behind me. “Not really sure what’s playing; but I live close-by, so I figured I’d run by and see. And lo and behold,” Ray finished with a smile.
“Serendipity,” I said, blushing with pleasure.
“Ooh, breaking out the big words,” he laughed, shifting his gaze from my face to sweep the crowd around us.
“Are you meeting someone here? Is Kate with you?” His voice was utterly guileless, no suggestion that he was fishing for an invitation. It was simple curiosity, simple friendliness.
I shook my head, wondering if he would think my answer pathetic. Somehow, it seemed more acceptable for a man to see a movie alone.
But why?
Where had I gotten such a skewed perception of things? Did everyone share that opinion, or was it just me?
“No, not meeting anyone,” I replied finally.
I was almost sure he could see all of the thoughts floating around the air above my head, the way they’re drawn in comic strips.
“Nope. Just me. Alone.” I stopped, realizing the feelings I’d been battling before Ray’s appearance were edging their way out into the open.
I cleared my throat, trying to get a better handle on things.
“Um, I really just wanted to get out and see a movie, you know? It was kind of a last-minute whim, and I figured Kate would probably already have plans.” I tried to smile with more confidence than I felt.
“Besides, she’ll be going to Atlanta really soon, and I need to get used to her not being here again,” I said, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Right?” I realized I was nodding my head, likely resembling a bobblehead doll—in an unconscious attempt at convincing not only Ray of my independence, but also myself.
Self-assured, independent Zoë, deciding to go to the movies alone.
Just because.
Just like countless other people did.
“Right,” Ray said, looking a bit skeptical. “So what have you decided to see?”
“Well, I was thinking maybe that one,” I said, indicating the poster for the latest Sarah Jessica Parker movie.
“Surprise, surprise. A chick flick,” Ray chortled.
“What, you expected me to shell out ten dollars to waste the next two hours of my life watching the most mind-numbing display of improbability, explosiveness, and cringe-worthy writing in the theater?” I countered.
“I guess not,” he laughed, smiling at me for a moment. “I wouldn’t do this for just anyone, but would you like some company?”
My eyebrows shot up. “Really?”
“Why not? You’re here. I’m here. Who says we shouldn’t go together?” He shrugged. “I don’t think most people go to the movies alone by choice, Zoë. I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure that the whole idea of going to the movies is to do it as a group activity. Solo movie watching is why we have Netflix. So that no one sees you alone in your pajamas watching sappy girlie movies and bawling your eyes out when some goon proposes to the girl in the story.” Ray grinned wickedly. “Don’t deny it—you know you do. The minute the guy pops a knee, you break out the box of tissues.” He paused and looked around shiftily before leaning in to whisper.“So do I,” he said. “And then I have pillow fights with my buddies before we braid each other’s hair.”
I reached out to swat his arm.
“Jerk.”
“Seriously, though. Why don’t you let me come with you? If nothing else, you can argue with me afterwards about how lovely the storyline was, even if it was completely implausible. Mmmkay?”
I eyed him contemplatively. Why was he always so nice to me? He hardly knew me, yet he seemed to understand me. It was an odd sort of familiarity—like someone you’ve known your whole life, even from the first moment of meeting. And Ray seemed to be exactly what I needed, there to be a friend.
Now it was up to me to let him be there.
I smiled, one that I meant.
One that I hoped could convey how much I wanted to say but didn’t really know how.
“That would be great, Ray. Really great.” I paused, widening my smile. “And seeing as I am shamefully lacking in provisions, I would love to buy you some Goobers for your trouble.”
“Sweet!” Ray said. “Now I can do my Goober dance.”
My eyes grew in horror. “You have a Goober dance?”
Ray shook his head as he took his place in line beside me. “You are so easy,” he said with a laugh.
“It’s Kate,” I said two hours later, reading the display on my ringing phone as Ray and I meandered out of the theater.
Our rom-com deficiency now sated, I couldn’t help but wonder where the evening would take us next. How was I going to untangle and gracefully make an exit without appearing rude?
I flipped it open and raised it to my ear.
“Hey, Kate, where are you?”
“Where are you?” she asked back. “There’s fifty kinds of noise in the background.” She paused for a beat. “Are you at a bar? Tell me you’re not at a bar. Your mother would kill me if she found out you went to a bar alone.”
“Hey!” I said, mildly insulted. “Why would you assume I was at a bar? And, more importantly, why are you assuming I would be there alone?”
There was a stunned silence that crackled through her end of the line.
“Okay, I know you’ve been through a lot lately, but you’re still Zoë—and the Zoë I know is hardly a barfly. So come on. Where are you?”
There was still a thin edge of uncertainty in Kate’s voice, enough for me to know that she was slightly thrown. I could almost hear the wheels grinding in her head. Had I changed enough in the year that she’d been gone that I might actually hit the bar scene to drown my sorrows?
I knew the answer to that, but she was showing faint shadows of doubt.
“Don’t worry, Kate. I’m at the movies,” I said, hoping my words would allay any amount of fear she might have. “And I’m not alone. Ray was here, so we decided to see a movie together.” I realized, as soon the sentence left my mouth, what question might follow.
“Together? A date?” Kate asked, never one to disappoint.
“No,” I snorted.
Maybe I was a little too insistent to be convincing, but I was slightly annoyed at the assumption.
Couldn’t men and women go to the movies together without everyone automatically jumping to the conclusion that it was a date? Why were people so anxious for me to start dating again, anyway? What if I wasn’t ready? What if I didn’t feel any desire for this to be a date?
I darted a glance at Ray, who seemed to be studying the movie posters on the wall with an intensity that suggested he was trying not to overhear.
Was there something wrong with me? I couldn’t help but wonder as I looked at him. He was perfectly pleasant-looking, and he was such a sweet guy. Any reasonable woman would be happy to have him as a date.
Did that mean I was unreasonable? Great. Not only was I damaged, I was unreasonable in my expectations.
I was going to die alone.
All alone.
I was right back where I’d started, when I’d first taken my place in line at the theater earlier that evening.
Alone, alone, alone.
“Zoë?” I heard Kate say.
How long had she been talking? What had I missed?
“I’m sorry, it’s hard to hear you,” I replied, hoping I was doing a sufficient job of recovering. All I really wanted to do was go home and crawl into bed with the covers pulled over my head.
“I said I’m leaving work now—they needed me to stay late—but I was hoping maybe I could talk you into meeting up with me for dinner?”
“Dinner?” I repeated.
Ray seemed to straighten his spine at the word. I wondered what might be going through his mind, if he even registered the movement. There was no hiding the fact that he’d been listening to every word.
“Yes, dinner,” Kate said. “You know—food. Restaurant. You in?”
“Well,” I hesitated, unsure of what she might say to the suggestion that was forming on my lips. “Would you mind if Ray came along?” I asked.
All pretenses had been dropped, and Ray was now facing me, his eyes searching my face for anything hinting at Kate’s answer. He looked hopeful, like a little boy waiting to hear whether his playmate can come out and play.
“No, no. That would be fun, actually. Drag him along. We can get barbecue at Billy Bob’s,” she said.
Ah, Billy Bob’s. Purveyor of the smoked-meat equivalent of crack.
I felt my stomach rumbling appreciatively in anticipation.
“Meet me there in half an hour?” Kate was clipping out her words now, and I could tell she was trying to wrap things up at the office and get out of there in as little time as possible.
There were a few voices in the background, snippets of words that I caught being sent her way, attempts to get her attention one last time before she stepped out the door.
“See you there,” I said, a small twinge of worry scratching at the happy glow that had started to wrap its way around me.
Would she be able to slow her brain down enough to really be there when she was there—or was she starting to leave already? The time Kate had left with me before she went to start her new life in Atlanta was quickly dissolving, like an Alka Seltzer tablet in a glass of hot water. It seemed to be going at an accelerated rate. Much as I hated to admit it, I was getting more and more afraid that I wouldn’t be able to cope with her leaving.
Ray stood mutely at my elbow as I shut my phone and stared at it, in a silent trance, as though its plastic form might encase the answers to questions that tumbled over one another on the static-filled lines of my brain.
“So what’d she say?” Ray asked after a respectable number of beats.
I blinked my eyes rapidly, wrenching my thoughts and focus back to where I was standing, right here with Ray in front of the theater.
In a present reality that had cast me as a young woman grieving the loss of love and wondering what the next scene would bring. Every moment of every day unscripted, fed to me line by blind line.
“Who, Kate?” I asked, realizing the stupidity of my question only after it was too late.
Yes, Kate. Of course. Who else would he be referring to?
Ray nodded, kindly sidestepping the opportunity to point out my obliviousness.
“She’s leaving work and wants to get some dinner,” I said, self-consciously tucking my hair behind my ears before dropping my phone into the deep recesses of my purse.
“Have you ever been to Billy Bob’s?” I asked, not sure that I should be hoping he’d want to come along.
Every fiber in me knew that I would never feel anything more than friendship for this man who’d unexpectedly shown up in my life, but I still wanted him there. Even after such a short time of knowing him, something told me that he was important somehow. That he would become more than just temporary. There was a bond, an indefinable network of connection that seemed to be growing between us, like roots creeping along the ground.
“What’s a Billy Bob?” Ray was grinning now, enjoying some game of his own making.
I raised an eyebrow at him, shaking my head sadly as though I was lamenting his ignorance.
“Poor, dear, Ray. How empty your life must have been up to now, if you are so unschooled in the wonders of Billy Bob’s. You’re coming with me,” I said, taking him by the sleeve and tugging him on, toward the parking lot and our cars.
“Have you had any luck convincing her yet?” Kate asked Ray as we slid into our booth at the restaurant.
She’d never been one to waste time or words tiptoeing around delicate subjects. Which made any rare attempt she made at it that much more noticeable and, consequently, that much more unsuccessful. She hauled out the big guns almost right away, without even making a minimum effort at paving the way with small talk.
Ray smiled at her—a smile, I noticed, that was not the same kind he beamed at me. This was something else. Something more. Something that telegraphed interest more than brotherly affection or simple friendship. Even in my half-blind state of grieving, I could still see that, still feel the electric current that hummed off of him when he was around her.
I looked from Ray’s face back to Kate. Did she see it? Did she feel it?
“You’ll have to forgive her, Ray. She’s about as subtle as a two-by-four,” I said, casting a baleful glance at Kate as I spoke.
“Life’s too short for subtlety, Zoë,” Kate replied, smiling unapologetically as she batted her eyelashes and turned back to Ray. “So?”
Ray didn’t look like he knew whether to blush at the attention or run away in fear. He’d never really been caught in the middle of one of our “discussions.”
Yet.
Sure, that first day at the coffee shop had given him a small taste, but Kate and I had been close enough for long enough that we weren’t afraid to tell one another what we thought. About anything, no matter how painful. Now they were both convinced that I should move into Neil’s house, but Ray seemed to think that easing into things was the most effective way of winning me over.
“Not yet, but now that you mention it,” he began, a slight hesitation in his voice. “I think Kate and I both agree that this is a really good idea for you, but you’re the one that needs to be convinced.”
I sat silently, feeling his gaze on me as he waited for my response.
How could he possibly understand everything that went along with this decision? How could he ever understand, really? It wasn’t a feeling that was communicable to someone who had never been through this before.
From where Ray was sitting, he knew nothing. He still didn’t know details. Maybe he’d been able to piece a few things together, but I had never told him the story, never told him about the life I’d lost.
Part of me was afraid of the pity, afraid that he would start to look at me differently. That was one thing I couldn’t handle, I knew. He was one of the few people who didn’t treat me like the un-merry widow.
Kate’s voice broke my reverie. “As you know, I have a million reasons for thinking you should take Ray and Neil up on the generous and ingenious offer. I can recite my litany again, if you’d like,” Kate offered gamely, taking a deep drink from the iced tea that had been delivered to our table.
“Not necessary,” I said quickly, shooting her a meaningful look. I didn’t want Kate to be the one to tell Ray my tale of woe. Not now, not yet. “I’m still thinking about it.” I was hoping to shut the conversation down and move on to other, less heavy topics.
Thankfully, the waitress came, distracting us with her tray of food. I knew I had things to think about, and time for decision-making was running out. Right now, though, I was savoring my few moments of happiness—stolen time that made it easy to pretend I was someone else, someone normal whose life had never been touched by death.
Chapter 5 (#ulink_4ff1b0d0-b94f-5983-97ea-fa084211a53e)
“She thinks I should move out of my apartment,” I said into the phone. “What kind of lunacy is that, Mom?”
I was sitting cross-legged in the grass, under a tree in the park across from my office in the business district of Pensacola. It had been a week since Kate had given me her diagnosis of the situation, a full week for me to mull it over and digest.
Unfortunately, I still hadn’t been able to mull or digest to the point of decision.
People were walking by slowly, enjoying the beautiful weather, drinking in the scenery as the sunset painted a picture across the sky in a wash of bright pinks and oranges. I heard the falling water of the fountain to my right, muffled conversations of people sitting on nearby benches.
What I didn’t hear was any kind of response from my mother.
“Mom?” I said again, more urgently.
“Would you hate me if I told you that I agree?” she asked finally. “Actually, it’s something I’ve been thinking for a while now, but I never knew quite how to say it.”
“What?” This was not the response I was expecting at all. I was expecting something more along the lines of, Oh, no, honey. Kate’s absolutely wrong. There’s no reason for you to move.
“Wait a minute. You agree with her?” I heard the shrillness in my voice.
Mom hesitated again, but when she finally spoke, her voice was firm.
Decisive.
“Yes, I do. I think that being in that apartment isn’t good for you because it reminds you so much of Paul. I’m not saying you need to forget about him, so please don’t feel that way. But you need to remember something: you and Paul were never married. You still have a chance to have that kind of happiness with someone else, to start a life with someone. I know how much you and Paul loved each other, but you have to open yourself up to the possibility that there will be someone else. You can find that kind of love, or even better, again. Your book isn’t finished yet.”
The blades of grass under me melted into a dark green blur as tears pooled in my eyes and dropped onto my jeans, making dark spots as they landed.
How do mothers always know where your weak spots lie? It was a concern I hadn’t spoken aloud; but one that was constantly there, just under the surface. Almost like a low-grade headache.
I was only twenty-four, but I felt as though I’d had my one chance at true happiness ripped from me. As if I was never going to move beyond this, and I would be alone forever. That no one was going to want me.
The individual drops on my jeans had enlarged into puddles as I sat there crying silently, the sounds of the people around me and the noise of the waterfall competing with all the thoughts racing in my head. So many thoughts that I couldn’t control, so many emotions that I couldn’t explain. So many fears that I didn’t want to voice because I was afraid that expressing them might make them a reality.
“Zoë? Honey? Are you still there?”
I nodded.
“Sweetie?” she asked again.
“Uh-huh,” I managed. It came out more like a squeak than an actual word, but it was acknowledgement enough that she knew I was still on the line.
“Are you okay?” Her concern translated over the line as clearly as though she was in front of me.
“Not really, Mom,” I closed my eyes and breathed. “Mama, how do you know I’m not finished?” The tears that before had just been passive became violent, choking ones.
“Finished? Zoë, baby. You are far from finished. You’ve just started,” she replied, her hushed voice telling me that she was crying by now, too.
“But how do you know?”
“I just know,” she said firmly. “You have so much life ahead of you, my beautiful baby girl. Remember that.”
The sure sound of her voice gave me a flutter of hope, even though she was so many miles away.
“Are you coming down for a visit anytime soon?” I asked hopefully.
“I’d like to, Zoë,” she said. “I’m trying to convince your father to take a week off from work so that we can come see you, and see Kate before she leaves.” The pointed tone in her voice hinted that my father was near enough to hear her end of the conversation.
“She’d like that,” I replied. “And so would I. I miss you.”
It was a frequent refrain, and it was true. My mother and I had always had a close relationship, but she and my dad had had to move to Birmingham—a full state away in Alabama—for his work with the University there. It was a position he’d applied for without ever expecting to actually get; but in a happy fluke, the instructor who’d originally been granted the job in their Air Force ROTC program had decided he would rather open his own food truck serving gourmet sandwiches made with doughnuts in place of bread.
The man was doing a booming business.
Meanwhile, my father had found his happy place, guiding his students along as they began their bright futures in the military life.
“I miss you, too.”
“Tell Dad I say hi,” I sighed.
“I will,” she said, pausing long enough for me to hear mumbling in the background.
“He says hi back, and to remind you that you’re his favorite daughter.”
I had to laugh at that one.
“That’s because I’m his only daughter,” I giggled.
“It’s still true.”
“Well. Tell him I’m glad, and that he’s my favorite father,” I replied.
“Will do. Bye, baby,” my mom said. “I love you.”
“I love you, too. So much.”
My coffee was ready before I reached the counter.
“Should I give Neil a call?” Ray asked as he handed me my cup.
I nodded, giving him a questioning look.
His normally broad grin was replaced by a look of sympathy and concern.
As if he knew.
“Kate’s been in here every day since movie night,” he said in explanation.
“Ah. And I’m guessing she told you everything,” I said, dropping my eyes.
“Yes, she did. And I’m sorry.” There was a knowing in his voice that made me raise my eyes to meet his. It was hard to see, but somewhere behind all that carefree humor was the remnant of a pain that had shaped his life as much as my pain was shaping mine.
We stood there, silently communicating our own individual wounds without ever uttering a word. It’s strange how pain can level the field, can bring shared ground to people who might otherwise have nothing in common.
Ray nodded, breaking the spell. “I’ll give him a call tomorrow,” he said.
“Thanks, Ray.”
“No problem,” he smiled, snapping the mask back in place. “And as repayment for the favor,” he said, his eyes shifting from side to side and leaning forward as though he was about to whisper a secret, “you can tell Kate she needs to take me up on my offer for dinner.”
I smiled back at him.
Here he was, an unexpected answer to a prayer I never thought to pray.
Chapter 6 (#ulink_efe9bdcb-398a-50d4-8c34-23eacd0b1029)
The apartment seemed small now, suffocating somehow. I stood in the doorway, trying to look at my surroundings with new eyes, with the eyes of someone who was starting over. I saw the past everywhere, and it seemed inescapable. It was in the painting in the front hall that Paul had given me for Valentine’s Day last year, in the set of knives that he’d helped me pick out when I’d gotten my apartment. It was on every wall that we’d primed and re-painted together, infused into every room.
I couldn’t start over and still be here.
I sat on my couch, surrounded by suitcases and banker’s boxes full of the things I was going to rely on for the next few months. Everything else would stay here to be packed, piece by piece, and put in storage. Eventually, it would be moved to a new home. A new home where I hoped to feel different.
Better.
I wanted to stop feeling so broken all the time, so I had decided that Neil’s would be a stopgap. A place to land while I looked for another, more permanent place to call my own.
Was I ready for this? God, I hoped so.
I hefted one of the boxes and walked out into the hall, looking up to find myself face to face with the door of Paul’s apartment.
It was a sight that greeted me every time I went out, every time I came back.
It was a sight that drove home how alone I felt.
And it was something that I wanted to get away from. Needed to get away from.
Paul’s apartment.
Even though it wasn’t. Not anymore.
The new tenants were people I avoided at all costs. I didn’t want to know them, didn’t want to think about the lives they were living in the apartment where my dead fiancé once lived. I didn’t know their first names or even how old they were, just that it was a man and a woman. I didn’t even know if they were just living together or married—each choosing to keep their respective last names.
And it didn’t matter.
All that mattered was that their names now replaced Paul’s next to the buzzer for 5B in the lobby downstairs. That their furniture was where his had once been. That their lives were going on behind that door, within those walls, while his had stopped.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
Here we go, I thought. This is the beginning.
The beginning of what, I wasn’t at all sure. What mattered was that this was a step in the right direction.
“Zoë, dear, are you alright?”
I opened my eyes to see Mrs. Fenmore, the lady from two doors down, looking at me with eyebrows knitted tightly together in concern. I tried to smile reassuringly at her, but I’m not sure it came out looking right.
“Oh, I’m fine, Mrs. Fenmore,” I lied. “I’m just getting my stuff out to my car. How are you this morning?” I asked, anxious to shift her focus.
Her wrinkled face sharpened as she assessed me over the tops of her horn-rimmed glasses. I could see all the wheels turning in her head as we stood there, silently facing each other in the hall. She may have given the appearance of being absent-minded and often flighty, but I knew well enough that she was sharper than a tack. She just knew how to use age to her advantage. I had a feeling that she knew more about every tenant in the building than they realized, simply because she was so good at unobtrusive observation. That, and the fact that people seemed to just off-handedly spill their guts whenever they were around her.
Which was precisely what I was determined not to do right now.
She smiled sadly at me and took a small step forward, getting close enough to rest a gnarled, vein-mapped hand on my arm.
“We’re going to miss you, my dear girl,” she said softly, her watery blue eyes seeming to bore directly to my soul.
I took a long, deep breath, fighting off the tears that seemed inevitable. I managed a wobbly smile and nodded, fearful that opening my mouth to respond would open the floodgates; and then I’d never be able to leave.
“Let me know if you need anything, Zoë. I know of a few able-bodied young men who’d gladly help you move your things.” She squeezed my arm with another small smile, then turned to go.
“Mrs. Fenmore,” I said, wanting to catch her before she walked away. “Thank you. For everything.” I had to stop there, but I knew that it was enough. She dipped her head in kind of a half-nod, the corners of her thin lips curving up ever-so slightly.
I watched her retreating figure, wondering just how much she knew. Wondering just how much those watery blue eyes had seen, and thinking that maybe she had once been where I was standing.
There it was.
My new life, twenty minutes and fifteen miles away from my old one. Yes, I could have moved to another state, another country, even. But this was far enough. Even such a short distance was a huge step for me—the thing that mattered most here was the simple fact that there was nothing, no reminders of my life with Paul, here.
The house was one story with a brick and wood siding façade, sitting on a postage stamp yard. There was no garage, just a carport and a small area near the front door that had aspirations of being considered a porch. I was guessing that the house was at least thirty years old, but it looked as though it was wearing those years well. The yard was well-kept, and nothing appeared run-down or cluttered.
There was a truck parked up under the shade of the carport, a late model Ford Ranger. The charcoal body of the truck looked newly washed and meticulously polished, a telling sign that its owner took pride in its appearance—even if he was going to be too far away to enjoy it.
I sat in my car, idling in the driveway as I tried to process what I was staring at and how it now related to me. This was going to be home. For the next nine months of my life, this was where I was going to start and end my days.
I sucked in a long, deep breath, letting it out slowly.
I was really going to do this.
I took another deep breath, hoping that maybe I would feel a little more resolute. Not that having a car jammed with boxes and suitcases of my belongings wasn’t resolute enough. I was just scared.
Scared stupid, if I was going to be brutally honest.
Here we go, I thought, gritting my teeth as I cut the engine and opened my door. I stepped out onto the worn concrete of the driveway and unfolded myself from the car. I took a minute to look around at the houses around me, trying to redirect the nervousness I was feeling. Putting off going into the house just a little bit longer.
It was a nice enough neighborhood. Small, nothing spectacular, but it looked safe. There were a couple kids zipping up and down the street on bicycles, hollering indecipherable things at each other. A woman across the street was busily pulling up the weeds in the flower bed that bordered the front of her house, and somewhere nearby someone was mowing their lawn.
I stood there listening to the sounds of Saturday, the sounds of normalcy, feeling the warm sun on my face as I waited for…what? Why was I waiting? I shook my head at my own idiocy and shut the car door.
When I reached the front door of the house, I pulled the key from my pocket and held it in my hand for a minute, just standing there and contemplating the door. It was brown; a deep chocolate color that made a nice contrast to the sand-colored wooden siding fronting the house. This was a guy door, I thought with a small smile. To go with a decidedly guy house, I added mentally, noting a beaten-up toolbox shoved into a corner of the front porch.
I slid the key into the lock and twisted the knob. It took some jiggling and a hard shove against the door with my shoulder to get it open, and then I found myself standing in a small living room. A large window to my right let in the only bit of light. White mini blinds, closed against the curious eyes of the neighborhood, gave the room a soft, hazy feel. I looked around without turning on any lights, wanting to get to know the room a little bit before I exposed it to the harsh realities of a light bulb.
Time to start the tour.
An hour later, I’d determined through various clues that the guy was far from a germaphobe, but still clean enough that I didn’t feel as though I had to attack every room in the house wearing a hazmat suit. He was a runner—and quite good at it, if the collection of various medals and awards were anything to go by. And, aside from an assortment of empty missile shells, the man was definitely not prone to tchotchkes.
I started making a mental list of things I wanted to do to make myself feel more at home in these new surroundings. Vacuum, clean the bathroom, dust…and I’m going to have to stock the fridge, of course, I thought as I moved down the hall to the kitchen.
It was modest and serviceable, much like the rest of the house. There was a refrigerator, stove, dishwasher, and microwave that all looked like they might possibly be pushing the twenty-year mark, all in a strange shade that I was assuming used to be almond.
At least it wasn’t avocado, I thought with a small smile.
I turned my full attention to the fridge, which was humming a little louder than I was used to hearing. I raised an eyebrow. The last thing I needed right now was an appliance malfunction.
There were a few photos posted randomly across the front, babies and a couple of little kids, each of which I turned over to inspect for identification. Apparently, Neil was the proud uncle of five very cute children.
I wondered how many siblings he had.
Not that I should really care, I thought. I probably was never even going to meet this guy. As Ray had explained it, his deployment had begun a bit earlier than expected, which meant he’d left before our arranged introduction.
I opened the door to the refrigerator and cautiously peeked inside, lest something jump out at me. A lone bottle of ketchup wobbled inside the door. At least there was one thing I could knock off my grocery list, right?
Oh, make that two things, I thought as I opened the freezer door to find a bottle of vodka.
Was there a drink you can make with ketchup and vodka?
I almost laughed out loud at the thought.
Maybe some sort of Bloody Mary-type concoction, if he had some Tabasco sauce in one of the cabinets.
Kate, in her encyclopedic knowledge of all things mixed, would know. I would have to have her come over later to help me get settled. Or at least to help diffuse some of the strangeness. Maybe she could stay with me for this first night here, I thought.
My cell phone began to ring, and I pulled it quickly from my back pocket, hoping it was her.
“Are you there yet?”
She hadn’t even waited for me to say hello before launching into her excited inquiry. I rolled my eyes, smiling at her complete lack of ceremony.
“Yup, I’m here. I haven’t gotten anything into the house yet, I’m sort of just doing a walk-through to get a little more acquainted with the place.” I trailed off as I moved my focus to the cabinets over the counters, opening them one by one. So far nothing strange.
“That bad, huh?” I could picture Kate on the other end of the phone, her nose wrinkled in distaste. She was probably already thinking the place must be vile.
“No, no, not at all. It’s,” I paused as I searched for an appropriate word, “cozy? Kind of small, a little dated, and you can definitely tell a guy lives here.” My eyes fell on a very ample supply of beans and canned tuna. “But it’s still nice. It’s going to need a cleaning job, but nothing major.”
There was a silence on the other end, and I knew she must be trying to decode my words. I raised an eyebrow.
“Really. You can come over later and see for yourself, Kate.”
“Oh, I’m definitely coming over later. Ray’s coming with me, if that’s okay. I think he wants to make sure you feel settled, and he promised Neil he’d check in on things periodically, anyway. We’ll bring dinner, okay?”
Great. I would have a little time to get my stuff in and at least a few things cleaned to my satisfaction.
“Sounds fine to me,” I replied, opening another cabinet to find stacked boxes of Gu energy gel. Mocha, berry, and chocolate flavored.
Mmmm.
“Could you do me a favor and bring something to drink when you come?” I asked. “Otherwise, the options will be limited to water, vodka, and Gu. Or maybe a combo of all three?”
She laughed. “Done. However interesting that might taste, I don’t think any of us would really want to try that one. I’m thinking more along the lines of wine, beer, and maybe some soda.”
I knit my eyebrows together. “How long are you planning on staying, a month?”
“No. But I’ll stay as long as you need me to,” she replied.
It was one thing I so loved about our relationship; I hadn’t even had to ask, and she knew.
Chapter 7 (#ulink_9acd5d10-e848-5264-9281-19559ea14ee0)
I was hot. I was sticky. And I was nearly suicidal by the time I unlocked the front door to the house. Florida summers, even early on in the season, are not the time to be without air conditioning. Especially not in the car. Sure, you’ve got the air coming in from any open windows, but there’s only so much that can do. The heat of the pavement reflected back up into the already boiling air, when combined with the small convection oven created by the interior of a car, pretty much negates the entire theory of “fresh air.”
The air-conditioned interior of the house felt so good I almost cried. I really, really needed to get the car fixed. Before I turned into an overheated, hysterical mess.
I threw my purse onto the chair in the living room, kicked off my sandals, and squished down the hall toward the bathroom. I was desperate to wash my face and get some of the grime off, just so I could feel human again. My shirt was stuck to my back and my jeans felt heavy enough to slide right off my hips.
“Hi, honey, I’m home,” I called out into the empty house. It had become almost ritual. Some people kissed the door frame when they walked through the door, I called out greetings to the imaginary man who lived in the house with me. Not that I really thought he was there, mind you. But the overall presence of guy was undeniable, even though said guy wasn’t physically there.
Somehow, it made the whole idea of living in someone else’s house a little less strange. I imagined all sorts of scenarios: maybe he was just up at the corner store, or at work, or off doing manly man things with his buddies…wherever he was, and I allowed myself to imagine that he was going to be back soon. And that we were, in fact, quite close, instead of complete strangers. I wasn’t even sure what he looked like, because even after two months of living in his house, I still had yet to run across a photo of Major Neil Epstein.
I pictured someone tall, handsome, rugged. And athletic, judging by all the running medals looped over the corner of the mirror on his bedroom dresser. He was sensitive, caring, educated without ever being aloof, but still a total man’s man.
He was The Perfect Guy.
At least, in my head he was.
I had plenty of time to imagine what Neil was like as I lay in his bed at night, as I sat at his dinner table eating my cereal every morning, as I brushed my teeth in his bathroom.
It was how I dealt.
That, and I’d begun to write him letters that I never sent. Not that I could have sent them, even if I wanted to. I had no address for him, not even an e-mail address.
Every night, before I went to sleep, I wrote him a letter in a notebook that I kept by the bed. Call it journaling, Anne Frank style. Her journal was written to an imaginary person she called Kitty, mine was written to a real person named Neil.
It helped me feel more connected to another person, to this man whose home I was living in.
I wrote to Neil about my day, about what I was feeling, about anything going on with the house.
I thought of it as a kind of therapy, because while I was telling Neil about myself, I was also learning things about myself. Things that I hadn’t ever really taken time to think about. Things that I was sometimes surprised to realize. Most importantly, though, I had stopped focusing so much energy on all the things Paul and I would never have the chance to do.
I was becoming my own person again, and I was moving past that place where I’d been the sad woman whose fiancé was dead.
I was more than that.
And I was determined to be more than that.
I’d even started running every morning again.
How could I not, with all those medals mocking me whenever I looked in the bedroom mirror? Fortunately for me, Neil’s house was in an area that was conducive to running.
I planned on hitting one of the local races soon, but I wanted to get a little faster before I ventured that far. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself or besmirch my good name in the running community. Not that I was sure they would even remember me, so long had it been since I’d actually been to a race.
A harsh, unflattering glow flooded the bathroom when I flicked the light switch, granting me the most ungracious welcome as I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I turned away quickly, deciding that merely washing the sweat off my face wouldn’t cut it.
I peeled off my clothes, throwing them into a damp heap in the corner. That was something else that had taken some getting used to—using someone else’s shower. Hotel showers are strange enough, simply because they aren’t yours. Someone else’s shower is strange because not only is it not yours, it’s someone else’s. It’s a very odd thing to pull back the curtain and see a half-empty bottle of men’s body wash and various shampoos that have been left behind.
When I’d gotten into the house, one of the first things I’d done was scrub the tub and shower walls with a very potent, very abrasive cleanser. It wasn’t quite strong enough to burn all of my nose hairs, but it was pretty close. Once the shower was sufficiently scrubbed and sparkling, I stocked it with my own shampoos and conditioners and body wash.
But I also put his back.
Somehow, I didn’t feel right totally displacing Neil’s things. This was still his house, and I was just a visitor here. Plus it kept me from feeling so alone. It’s amazing, isn’t it, the mind games you can play with yourself?
Once I’d showered, I wrapped up in one of the big, fluffy towels from the stack in the hall linen closet. I walked from the bathroom to the bedroom to find some clothes, thinking distractedly about how to blow up my poor excuse for a car.
Hmmmm. Wonder if any of Neil’s giant bullets would work? Or maybe he had some explosives somewhere in the house…
Probably he kept them in the same place that he’d stashed all the pictures of himself.
I found that terribly frustrating. Much as I hated having my picture taken myself, I should have given the guy a little more slack. But how in the world does somebody manage to not have a single picture of himself somewhere in his house?
Even I had a couple of snapshots that included my face floating somewhere in the sea of faces grouped together for a photo.
Even I, who was generally a reluctant party to any moment involving a camera that I wasn’t personally holding and controlling.
Squish.
I took another step further into the bedroom.
Squish.
What the?
I took more deliberate steps through the room, the carpet making squishing and sucking noises under my bare feet with each movement.
Okay, now I was getting really worried. I knew there was a water heater in a small closet-like space a few feet from the bed, and it seemed like the only logical explanation for all of this water.
Oh, dear God, don’t let it be the water heater, please don’t let it be the water heater, I prayed silently as I approached the door.
I knew, in all reality, that nothing would change between that particular second and the instant my fingers closed around the knob; but some small part of me was still hoping for a miracle.
A very small, very delusional part.
I opened the door and found an absolute mess in the small closet. I couldn’t tell exactly where it was coming from on the thing, but the water heater was definitely leaking.
Call me ignorant, but at that particular moment, I had no idea what to do. This wasn’t the kind of thing that was supposed to happen when you were staying in someone else’s house. This was the kind of thing that was only supposed to happen to people with their own houses, with husbands there to fix the damn thing. Or husbands there to act like they knew what the hell they were looking at and then call the plumber, claiming to be too busy to fix the damn thing themselves.
My mind was racing, my heart was going at a rate rapid enough to rival a hummingbird’s wings, and I wanted to throw up. Had I done something that made this thing burst or leak or whatever it was doing that it obviously wasn’t supposed to be doing?
I felt sick and guilty and panicked.
Neil was going to blame me.
I don’t know where the thought came from, but all of a sudden it was there. And, for only being a thought, it seemed as loud as if someone had shouted it into the room.
Neil was going to blame me.
Of course he would. I was the one here, watching his house, and I’d let this happen.
Granted, I hadn’t actually been present, but it had still happened on my watch. And I had absolutely no idea of what I should do.
I needed to call Ray. It seemed logical enough to me. At least he might know what to do, which was definitely a step up from standing there, staring at the thing like a helpless idiot. My feet were almost rooted to the floor, sunken into the spongy carpet, which seemed to have absorbed enough water to fill a bathtub.
Oh, God, the carpet! What was I going to do about the carpet?
Somehow, the realization that I was going to have to deal not only with a defunct water heater, but flooded carpeting, as well, sent me over the edge.
Not just a little over the edge, either.
A lot over the edge.
I turned away from the water heater and barely made it two steps before I threw up. Right there, all over the ruined carpet.
Followed immediately by crying, of course.
Naturally. Isn’t that what one does?
I sat down in the middle of the room, freshly showered and wrapped in a towel, and cried until I had nothing left to cry.
I must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing I knew, I was being awakened by the sound of the doorbell being rung. Not once, not twice, but repeatedly.
Whoever was out there was either determined to be let in or determined to lose an index finger and have it shoved up their—
I felt as though I had a hangover.
My head was pounding, my eyes were swollen, and I was completely disoriented. The room was dark now that the sun had gone down, and the open windows that had previously been a source of natural light were now letting in only the soft glow of streetlights.
How long had I been asleep? I wondered, staring into the grayness that seemed to envelop the room.
And who in the name of all that was good and holy was ringing the doorbell?
I rolled off my side and put my hand down on the carpet to sit up. The carpet sucked my hand into the depths of its soaked pile, and I remembered everything all in a flash that had the force of a slap across the face.
I took a deep breath—a deep, mind cleansing breath to battle the panic I could start to feel forming a knot in my chest.
And held it in.
Something smelled awful.
Something smelled absolutely foul.
Apparently, the crying fit I’d had earlier had precluded any post-throw-up damage control; and the puddle of it was now fermenting on the carpet.
And still the doorbell kept right on ringing.
I’d been wrapped in a towel when I’d fallen asleep earlier, and now it was sort of bunched up around me and under me—not really on me anymore. I was going to have to throw on some clothes before I went to answer the door, so whoever it was—persistent as they might be—was going to have to wait.
Period.
I picked myself up off the floor and made a mad dash for the robe I kept hanging on the back of the bedroom door. That was going to have to do, since the maniac doorbell-ringer couldn’t seem to keep his fingers to himself.
As I sprinted down the hall to the front door, I plotted ways to break that finger and possibly all of the other digits on the hands of whomever was doing the bell-ringing.
Someone was going to regret this.
Someone was going to wish they’d been a little more appreciative of ten functioning fingers.
Someone was—Ray.
“Nice robe, sweets, but hopefully you don’t always answer the door wearing that.” Ray grinned at me and thrust a bottle of wine in my hands. “Oh, and I realize it might be all natural and organic, but you might want to rethink the barf doubling as a hair gel. It kind of reeks,” he added, fanning the air and bending slightly to kiss my forehead as he came through the door.
I was still standing there with my mouth open, feeling somehow robbed now that I knew I wasn’t going to get to yell at anyone or break any bones.
I blinked and shut my mouth, realizing it might not smell so hot in there, considering the afternoon’s events. Mental note to make a bathroom detour to brush the teeth.
“Rough day, Zoë?” Ray asked over his shoulder as he walked toward the kitchen, presumably to comb the contents of the fridge. It was his first stop anytime he came over, so I usually made sure I had an ample supply of Fig Newtons chilling out in there. Not that normal people generally kept cookies in their refrigerators, but this—as I’d learned over the past several months—was how Ray McPherson preferred them. And Ray was not normal.
I rolled my eyes and shuffled along behind him.
He had no idea how rough.
“Little bit.”
“So tell me about it,” he said around a mouthful of cookie. The man wasted no time.
I blew out a puff of air, wondering where to start.
“That bad, huh?” he asked, still seeming extremely upbeat. Not that my mood was really anything to compare it to.
I set the wine bottle down on the counter and took his hand. “Follow me, Ray McPherson, and behold the indescribable bliss that has been my day,” I said as I led him out of the kitchen and down the hall.
Showing him would be much easier than explaining everything.
“Where are we going, Zoë Trent, and why are we using full names?”
“Just wait,” I said over my shoulder as we neared the bedroom.
“Oh, hey. Um, yeah, Zoë, I love ya and all, but—” Ray stopped the minute his feet hit the destroyed carpet. Even in shoes, the difference was obvious. That, and the overpowering smell of the puddle I’d left on the floor left both of us at a momentary loss for words.
“What the?” Ray turned to me, his eyes wide in amazement, his nose crinkled involuntarily in disgust.
I wasn’t sure whether to answer, cry, or throw up again, because I had the overwhelming urge to do all three. I decided that the best thing was simply to tell him what happened. Then maybe he would be able to tell me if more crying or throwing up again were warranted or just a waste of energy.
“The water heater. In the closet there,” I stammered, pointing in the direction of the door that stood open. “It exploded? Or leaked? Or something?” It might have been an irrefutable fact given the state of the carpet, but it came out sounding like a question, simply because I still wasn’t sure what exactly had happened to the water heater.
Or why.
The carpet made very odd, very loud wet noises under Ray’s feet as he walked across the room.
“Hmmm,” he grunted and scratched his head, working from the back, to the right side, to the hair that ended just above his forehead. He let out a huge burst of air, then ran the back of his right hand back and forth under his chin, skipping up his jaw line to scratch his beard.
And then he started laughing.
“I’m glad you think this is funny, Ray, but I fail to see the humor in all of this. Look,” I said, gesturing wildly at the room around me. “Look at this room! What am I supposed to do? This isn’t the kind of thing that’s supposed to happen when you’re just watching someone’s house. This isn’t the kind of thing that’s supposed to happen to women who are already teetering on the edge.”
The crying had started again.
And the snot.
My God, the snot.
Why is it that when you’re already reduced to extreme indignity, you’re taken down even more by a seemingly unending stream of mucus?
How fair is that?
I squeezed my eyes tightly shut and covered them with my hands, trying to stave off the flow of tears, wishing like hell that I could just crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head. I felt Ray wrap his arms around me, wordlessly pulling me into an embrace.
I could have melted into his arms. I felt weightless, formless, and somehow like I’d finally reached water after having been denied it. It had been so long since I’d had a man’s arms around me, an eternity since I’d last felt the security of being held by someone whose bulk felt like a refuge. Somehow, every tear, every gut-wrenching sob that I thought I no longer had in me was dredged up as I stood there wrapped in Ray’s arms. There was nothing romantic in the exchange. It was the solace of one friend to another, where nothing but human contact was needed.
We stood like that for what seemed like forever, the water heater and ruined carpet fading somewhere into a distant haze of unimportance as Ray stroked my hair and listened to my choked sobbing.
Chapter 8 (#ulink_50e5a0ee-481b-51e0-9e5f-a9b676e727e0)
“So tell me about this bottle of wine,” I said, reaching for the Shiraz that had been sitting on my kitchen counter without explanation for the past two hours.
Ray and I had done as much damage control as we could in the bedroom, then decided to make another go of it once it was daylight and within normal hours of operation for water heater repair men.
Ray shifted his weight and leaned against the counter.
“What?”
He bit his lip against a huge grin that was threatening to escape and reached into one of the millions of pockets of his faded cargo pants. No one would ever accuse Ray of being a metro-sexual.
I was about to ask him if he had a frog in his pocket when he suddenly held out his hand, a black velvet box resting in his palm.
My eyes widened, and for the umpteenth time that night, my eyes were welling with tears. But these, for once, were happy tears.
I set the wine back down on the counter and took the small box from his hand. I held it for a moment, running my fingers lightly over the top, feeling the gentle curve of the lid and the crush of the velvet under my fingertips. I realized I was holding my breath when I opened the box, and the faint creak of the hinge was the loudest thing in the room.
Nestled in the blackness of the box was the most beautiful ring I’d ever seen, one that put even the ring Paul had given me to shame.
One-point-five carats of princess-cut perfection sparkled brilliantly, seeming to capture every possible ray of light in the tiny kitchen.
I looked up at Ray, who stood silently, breathlessly awaiting my words.
And there were no words.
I reached out to him and pulled him into my arms, happier than I’d felt in longer than I could remember.
“What do you think?” he mumbled into my shoulder, finally breaking the silence.
I smiled even though he couldn’t see my face. “Yes,” I whispered, my eyes closed as tears crept out the corners and trailed down my cheeks. “I think she’ll say yes.”
It’s amazing how much life can change in the space of two months.
I knew from first-hand experience how much could change in the blink of an eye, but I had been on pause for so long that the past two months were like a whirlwind.
Kate was settling in nicely to her new position up in Atlanta—bettering the world in ways that made me feel as though I was merely taking up space on the planet, while she battled every day on behalf of those without voices. She’d been there only a month, but it felt as though she’d been gone a lifetime.
During the month between her return to the country and starting her new job, she had been a daily part of my life, and our relationship had recovering the strength it had lost while she’d been away. Life was gaining normalcy, little by little, and having Kate there to help me keep my perspective was invaluable. She was a lifeline for me, but I knew I wasn’t the only one who was now feeling the sting of her absence.
Though Buzzing Beans and I were seeing less and less of each other, Ray’s presence in my life had grown beyond the brick walls of the coffee house. He was basically the man in my life now, calling at various points of the day to check on me, stopping by the house just for a “quick visit and a cookie.” It had been how I’d discovered his absurd love of refrigerated Fig Newtons. He had come to check up on the house one day, supposedly just to see how things were going, and he’d wandered to the fridge. He’d peeked inside, then closed the door and shaken his head regrettably, all the while muttering under his breath about the uncivilized living conditions of a house with no Fig Newtons in the refrigerator.
Needless to say, the next time he did a spot check, there they sat—waiting just for him.
As all three of our lives became increasingly intertwined, romance bloomed, and soon Kate and Ray became nearly inseparable during her month there with me. The three of us had regular outings together, weekly trips to the movies and dinner. Game nights that lasted until the latest hours of the night. But in between those games and dinners and movies, Kate and Ray stole time together that didn’t include me, time that forged their bond as a couple instead of the trio that had begun it all. He complemented her in ways that made it inarguably apparent that this was it. After she’d moved to Atlanta, they’d been reduced to daily phone calls and video chats, but I knew they were both aching to see one another in person.
And now, Ray and I were sitting across from each other in the small living room of Neil’s house, toasting the future.
Ray finally left just after midnight, riding high on the optimism of a man in love and fueled by just the right amount of wine. I watched him pull out of the driveway and stood there, looking out at the stillness of the street, before I closed the door against the blackness of the night. The house felt quiet and so very empty after so much excitement, and I wondered fleetingly if this was what it was always going to be like—sending everyone home only to be left by myself, alone with the void.
I sighed against the exhaustion that was quickly closing in, bringing with it all the feelings of hopelessness that so easily win the fight when you’re already too tired to go another round. I flopped down on the guest room bed and picked up the journal I’d moved from Neil’s—my—bedroom, along with my alarm clock and pillow.
I uncapped my pen and began to write.
Dear Neil,
The water heater exploded today. Well, maybe not so much exploded as sprung a leak. I feel so horrible that it happened while you were away, like maybe it was somehow my fault, but Ray seems to think it would have happened even if you’d been here. Something faulty in the lines, or so he says. I don’t know if I can trust a coffee guy to shoot me straight on water heater malfunctions, though. The only things he knows how to fix involve copious amounts of caffeine, foam, and froth, and I have a feeling that this will take much more than simply tightening a loose bolt. Still, as a number-cruncher, I hardly feel qualified to argue with him.
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