Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71765 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71765 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
We loved the storms. One step at a time, one breath out and one in, I bypass the thin rope blocking off the west wing and flick on the light. Ignoring everything in front of me, I remember laying in James’s arms on the porch of his uncle’s house, under the tin roof, listening to the rain.
I can still hear him laugh as the bedroom door creaks open, the memories and the present moment colliding.
“One day we’ll have a tin roof porch,” he declared once. He said it like a joke until I told him I’d love that. I love the storms.
The next exhale is more difficult, because it hurts even though it shouldn’t. Simply existing shouldn’t cause pain like it does when you’re missing someone.
“You lied,” I speak into the quiet room. It’s colder in here. Unlike the hall, nothing in this room is covered. Roughly two years ago, I closed the door and told everyone not to enter it. And that’s how it’s remained. The heat clicks on as I drag my finger across the dresser. It’s dusty and musty. I suppose that’s what happens when a room is closed off for as long as this one has been.
With the trash bag still in my hand, I sit on the edge of the bed. It doesn’t protest in the least. A thought crosses my mind that I didn’t expect.
I wonder if Zander did this. If he cleaned out drawers he didn’t want to ever open. I wonder if he had someone else clean up the traces of Quincy, the ones we’re not supposed to leave around because it prevents us from “moving on.”
I’d ask him, but just like this bedroom door was a moment ago, I think that conversation is a place Zander doesn’t want to go. That it’s something that’s quite firmly locked up. Placing the bag on the bed, I focus on the other item that was balled up with it, the ancient phone that only texts.
I’m going to put some things aside.
It’s odd to feel relief and accomplishment, sitting in a room, proud not to be losing it.
What? Kamden texts back. What things? Do you need help?
His messages come quickly, one after the other.
Let’s just store them until I’m ready — My thumbs hesitate and I can’t type the rest of the sentence so I hit send. The idea of typing, to get rid of them, disrupts the small moment of ease, the hope that I am strong enough for this.
I hope he doesn’t ask, “Ready for what?”
Thankfully, he doesn’t.
Okay. We can store anything you want for however long or indefinitely. Can I come over?
Staring down at his question, I don’t know how to answer him. I think I want to be alone for this, but I don’t know that I can be.
I have a meeting but I’ll be done soon if you can wait.
No. The word is typed and sent before I can think twice about it. My breathing picks up as I push myself off the bed, taking in the abandoned room.
His texts don’t stop and with each one, I know he doesn’t trust me. He doesn’t think I can do this. Insecurity weaves its way through me. What about the girls? We’ll make it a cozy night in—we can watch Hocus Pocus and Kelly can read our tarot cards?
In an effort to reassure him, I tell him, Damon knows. I’m surprised by his response.
Where’s Zander?
I lie and tell him, Zander will be here soon.
But where is he, did he tell you to do this?
No, it’s just a part of me getting back to normal. It’s such a lie to minimize it as a line on a checklist. But there’s truth in it too. As my phone continues to vibrate with message after message, I pick up a silver frame from my old dresser. Sweeping off a thick layer of dust that clouds the photograph with my thumb, I peer down at a memory frozen in black and white. I used to call it “our photograph” because it’s the one nearly every gossip column and media outlet used when it came out that we were seeing each other.
In the photo, I’m lying against his chest; I can still feel the stubble lining his chin that rested in the crook of my neck. His teeth are perfect and I remember joking with him that it could be an ad for a dentistry practice. We look happy. “We were so happy,” I whisper to no one. Although my eyes gloss over, I hold it back and it’s easier to do than I anticipated.
Kam continues texting and I let out a small laugh that surprises me. I’m not sure where it’s come from, but I’ll take the lightheartedness over the heaviness that’s come over me.
I’m okay, Kam. I promise I’m okay.