“I have coffee for you.” My dad hands me a steaming cup of coffee. “And hot chocolate for you.” He hands Liza and Liam each a cup of hot chocolate, complete with marshmallows on top.
“I want to open this one first,” Liam says, shaking one of the gifts.
“We need to wait for your grandparents to get here,” Mom tells him.
My cell phone rings, and I jump up to grab it. It might be Ian. As I hit answer, the front door opens and in walk both sets of my grandparents.
“Hello,” I say, not recognizing the number on the caller ID.
“Hello, may I please speak to Micaela Anderson?”
Everyone is saying Merry Christmas and giving each other hugs and kisses, so it’s hard to hear. Stepping into the kitchen, where it’s quieter, I say, “This is she. Who’s this?” I can’t help the smile that forms at the sound of Ian’s—now my—last name.
“This is Lieutenant Gaspar.” Everything that comes after his name is a blur. My brain is fuzzy, and my heart is struggling to beat. Ian was in an accident while skydiving and didn’t make it. I knew it was dangerous for him to be a Navy SEAL, but I never imagined he would be at risk before actually becoming one. He’s so young, and is in shape, I never gave the risks more than a quick thought. I never imagined in my worst nightmares something like this would happen to him.
At some point, my parents find me curled into a ball in the kitchen. My dad takes the phone and finishes the call, and my mom takes me into her arms, holding me close. It’s hard to breathe, to see, to hear. My body isn’t working right, everything is wrong.
Ian has been in an accident.
My husband has been killed.
I’ll never be able to see him, touch him, feel him again.
All of our plans… our promises… our love.
In the blink of an eye, it’s all over.
Micaela
Fifteen Months Later
Dear Ian,
I stare at the unfinished letter in my hands, a letter that’s pointless to write because Ian is dead and will never get it. He’ll never read any of the words I have to say. My dad suggested I write Ian. He said when he was younger and had a problem with drugs, while he was in rehab he wrote my mom every day. Even though he never sent her any of the letters, he found the act of writing to be therapeutic. He wrote eighty letters, and I can’t even write one. I’ve been trying to write this same letter for almost fifteen months and I can’t do it. Dear Ian, that’s all I’ve managed to write. I have no idea what to do or say. My parents think I need to see a therapist, and I don’t disagree, but I’m not ready. My mom thinks I need to go back to college, and, again, I don’t disagree, but still, I’m not ready.
“Ewww,” a feminine voice says. “It smells like depression in here.”
I swing my head around to find Lexi and Georgia standing in my doorway. Lexi is smirking and Georgia is smiling softly. My heart constricts and tears fill my eyes. I can’t remember the last time I saw them. Maybe their graduation… Wow, that was… ten months ago?
“What the hell are you waiting for? Get over here and give me a hug,” Lexi demands. I stand, but stay frozen in place. If I hug her, I’m going to lose it. It’s what I do now—lose it.
“Fine, then we’ll come to you.” They both cut across the room and wrap me up in a tight group hug. The tears that were clogging my throat fall. One after the next, they flow down my cheeks like a river escaping a dam.
“It’s okay,” Georgia says, rubbing her hand up and down my back.
“What are you guys doing here?” They—as well as my family and friends—tried to visit several times after Ian died, but I pushed everyone away over and over again, until they finally gave up and let me wallow in my grief alone.
“We’ve let you have your space, but now we’re not going away.” Lexi pulls back and places her hand on her hip. It’s then I notice her hair.
“You dyed your hair?” I run my fingers through it. “Holy shit, it’s blond… like blond-blond.”
Lexi laughs and gives me a look of confusion. “I dyed it like a year ago…”
“And I didn’t even notice…” Wow, I’m seriously a shitty friend.
“You’ve had a lot going on,” Georgia says, trying to make excuses for me.
Have I, though? Had a lot going on? Since Ian died I haven’t done anything but mourn his loss. I dropped out of school, stopped working at the recreational center my family helps run. I haven’t worked out at the gym. The truth is I haven’t had anything going on.