“You did the right thing,” Bex declared, following me to plonk herself down on a barstool, peanut butter in tow.
I pulled eggs and milk out of the refrigerator, sitting them beside a loaf of bread.
She spied that and the pan I was getting out. “French toast? Fucking sicko,” she exclaimed in an Aussie accent and put her peanut butter down.
I rolled my eyes. “I know I did the right thing. It didn’t make hurting him any easier,” I told her.
She rolled her makeup smudged eyes. “Ugh. Seriously, I love you more than life itself Lilmeister, but stop caring about other people, especially douchebrain. Focus on yourself, for once in your life. Let this shit process. Yell, scream, cry, eat two tubs of ice cream while watching The Biggest Loser. I’m down for it all. Or to completely leave you in solitude,” she offered, knowing me too well.
I leaned against the counter, putting my head in my hands for a moment. “I’m scared,” I whispered then looked up at her. “For three years it’s been constant motion. Taking care of Mom, studying, working, rinse and repeat. I haven’t stopped. Haven’t contemplated any of it. I’m terrified if I do let myself realize that she’s gone, I’ll get lost. I’ll disappear in this chasm left in my life and never come out,” I told her brokenly. “Mom’s dead. Gone. It doesn’t feel real.” I stared at the door. “I’m expecting her to walk in here, paintbrushes in hand, declaring she’s going to paint our living room to brighten it up,” I said, choking on my tears.
Bex’s face was a mask of grief, a mirror of mine. She pushed up off her stool and rounded the counter to take me in her arms.
“Fuck, Lils, we’ll get through this, promise. I won’t let you lose yourself,” she whispered into my hair.
In that moment, I clung to my best friend like she was my lifeline. Maybe she was. I tried not to think about the other raft in the sea of grief I was floating in. The one named Asher.
Asher: Thinking of you, flower.
A small smile tickled the edge of my mouth as I re-read the text I’d gotten shortly after lunch. I hadn’t even been without him for twenty-four hours, and I yearned for his touch. It was as if the three years of distance had been three minutes. As if I hadn’t just broken up with my “kind of” boyfriend that morning.
Me: It’s been four hours. How can you be thinking of me already? I’m sure you’ve got much more important things to think about, like slinging back hooch and shooting guns.
I bit my lip, re-reading what I had typed. I erased it.
Me: I’m thinking about you, too.
I replied simply. He hadn’t written anything back; he was giving me space like I’d asked. I was grateful for it.
“Lil, you deserve a drink. Hell, I think it’s medically necessary,” Bex informed me, holding out a bottle. “I know you’re not a drinker, and that you haven’t touched a drop in three years. Haven’t had fun in three years. Not that I’m suggesting any of this is going to be fun, but alcohol makes you think it is, for a while anyway,” she told me sagely.
It was late afternoon. We had done exactly nothing. Ate french toast. Sat on our sofa and watched crappy reality television. Joked. Talked about Mom. Told funny stories.
It was weird. Sitting on the sofa in my PJs, with nothing to do, nowhere to be. I’d temporarily dropped out of college to work enough to support Mom, and have enough time to take care of her. My job at the bar had given me a few paid days off. It might have been a dive, but my boss was pretty awesome, and she’d loved Mom.
So I had nothing. No hospital to visit. No research to do for last minute cures. No bills to pour over—apparently medical bills died with the patient—apart from the usual.
My mom always shined bright. Shined beautiful. When I was around her, I was bathed in that light too. I was intoxicated, like everyone, by her zest for life. It was contagious. She was brilliant. The ying to my yang. The only reason I felt okay about being me, about my shyness, was because I had her to balance me out. To tell me that who I was, was exactly who I was meant to be. Without her, I was in danger of drifting away from who I’m meant to be. Or losing it altogether. Who was I without my ying? This was all too hard. The bottle Becky presented me with, offered the easy solution—oblivion.
I jerked awake, wiping drool from the side of my mouth.
So attractive.
I blearily regarded where I was.
Sofa.
Why was I on the sofa? My eyes touched an empty bottle of Jägermeister. Oh yeah, that’s why. Might explain the headache too. The headache was worsened by the knocking at the door. It wasn’t loud, but it seemed to echo off my skull.