Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
“Shit happens.”
She snorts and quickly takes a drink of wine to hide the rest of her amusement. A few breaths later, her smile vanishes and she stares at her wine glass. “Zach, do you remember when you told me about your trip to the store after Suzie died? You didn’t think about her for a little while and it felt bad? You wondered how you let yourself get distracted by things so insignificant like tomato sauce and peanut butter? And I didn’t answer you. I didn’t know how to answer that kind of question.”
I return a slow nod.
“Do you still feel that guilt?” she asks.
“I … I don’t know.” It’s true. I still don’t know how to navigate the future without clinging to the past and without forgetting every little thing that made me love her. I have a whole jar of those reminders in my bathroom. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I’m here. And I’ve been here longer than I ever planned on staying. I not only feel indebted to you for your generosity … I feel indebted to Suzie for being my friend. And I know she’d want me to make sure you’re good. Ya know? Make sure you’re not crippled by her death. I mean, I see you go to work and make meals. I just hope you don’t feel bad if you think of peanut butter and tomato sauce without thinking about her at the same time.”
I release the hint of a laugh despite the pain that’s still alive in my chest. “Is that a litmus test for my mental health? Peanut butter and tomato sauce thoughts without her?”
“Well…” she lifts a shoulder “…yeah, I suppose it is.”
“It’s hard. The guilt is still there, just not as demanding. I don’t know what’s okay. What’s normal and healthy? How many times a day is it okay to think of her? Is it okay to look at pictures of her? Is it time to go through her side of the closet? And what do I keep? What do I give away? She’s … everywhere yet nowhere. Is she thinking of me? Does she see me? Hear my thoughts? Feel my pain? Or has she moved on? Has she reunited with her Tara?”
“How does that feel?”
I squint at her. “How does what feel?”
She picks at some of the cat hair on my sofa. “How does it feel to think that she sees you? That she can hear your thoughts or feel your pain? Is that what you want? Does it make you feel less lonely? Does it ease some of the pain? Because I think I would hate it.” Her nose wrinkles. “No offense. I’m just saying … I would hate feeling like everything I thought, did, or felt could be scrutinized by someone who is no longer here to share it with me. I’m sure in moments that are good, you’ll naturally wish she were here to see and experience the moment. But what happens when you trip? We all trip. We all make mistakes and have thoughts that we wouldn’t want anyone to know we’re thinking.”
“It …” My response feels instant, but the second I open my mouth the truth behind her words sinks in, and I question everything. “I don’t know. Her voice is still in my head.”
“What’s she saying?”
“Do it.”
“Do what?” She chuckles and tucks her blond hair behind her ears.
“I don’t know.”
But I do. I know.
She’s waiting on me to make a difference in someone else’s life. It’s like she won’t truly rest until I do. Maybe I won’t stop hearing her voice until I do. Am I ready to stop hearing her voice? It’s only been two months.
Only? Already?
I have no idea where time fits into this equation anymore. Have I been too slow to move on? Too quick? Was it terrible of me to think about peanut butter and tomato sauce and not her?
“You should call Michelle and ask her to help you clean out Suzanne’s closet. She might want some of her clothes. And her family and yours would probably love to see that you’re taking that step.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Oh … sorry. Too soon? I get it.”
I shake my head. “If I ask Michelle, she will weep the whole time.”
Emersyn drains the rest of her wine and sighs while standing. “Well, you clearly need to do something. If you don’t want her voice haunting you for the rest of your life, I suggest you figure it out.”
My lips twist as I think about her words.
“Thank you for dinner and the wine. It’s been—”
“Will you do it?” I ask.
She taps her empty wineglass against her chin. “Do what?”
“Put all her things in boxes.”
“You should go through them.”
I shake my head. “I’m keeping her quilt and the dreamcatcher. That’s it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Does that make me a pathetic dick in your eyes?”