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My limbs felt weighted and lazy from disuse. And my stomach was churning with the need for food.
I climbed out of a bed whose sheets needed a wash after being in them for so long, so I stripped them and threw them on the floor before I went off to shower some of my mourning away.
I walked back out to my kitchen to find Edison missing.
My stomach dropped at that, wondering if his patience had finally worn out, if he realized what was between us was way too new for him to have to put up with my descent into near-madness.
But before the coffee could even stop dripping, the door was opening, and in he was walking with a bag of groceries.
I was actually normal-feeling enough to be amused by the look of complete shock on his face at seeing me up and mostly-functioning.
"Lenny."
"Edison," I mimicked the odd confusion in his voice.
"You're up."
"And not covered in grief," I agreed. "And making my own coffee."
He crossed over to me, brows drawn together, watching me like I was something that didn't make sense. "Are you okay?"
I waved a hand down my body, clean, dressed. Sure, I only managed to throw on gray yoga pants and a wifebeater, but they were clean. I was not in a ball crying or staring at the wall. I was pretty sure my okay-ness was on display for all to see.
Maybe I shouldn't have been okay.
Maybe it was too soon.
But there had been a part of me that had been preparing for this day, having a gut instinct that the six months would pass with little improvement.
I think the grief had a lot to do with how blindsided I was, how unprepared to hear it how I did, to have to function and make arrangements after that blow.
"Maybe I should still be in bed," I mused, wondering what it said about me that I could be up so soon.
"Grief comes in waves, Lenny," he told me, watching me closely. "Sometimes it is loud and crashing. Sometimes it just ebbs and flows gently. Don't be surprised that there are days with calmer shores, but don't be blindsided by the riptide either."
I nodded at that.
"I feel human today," I admitted. "I felt gross and groggy and hungry when I opened my eyes. I haven't felt that way in days."
He moved over toward me, putting an arm around my lower back, pulling me against his chest, kissing my forehead before tucking my head under his chin.
"Good. I'm glad, draga mea. You started to scare me."
I scoffed at that. "I doubt anything scares you."
"It doesn't," he agreed. "But you did."
I took a deep breath, trying to make my tongue force out the words. I felt them down to my soul, but the feeling part was easy. The telling part was always hard for me.
"Thank you," I told his shoulder, breathing his scent in, finding it comforting. "For being here for me."
What would have happened if I had been alone as I usually was?
Where would Letha be laid to rest if my mother was in charge of it?
What spectacle would be made of her life?
How would I have gotten food and fluids into me without someone making me choke them down?
Would I have fallen into a bottle?
Would I have understood the hopelessness that would make me romanticize the idea of a swan dive like my sister had?
Would I have followed her into the dark?
As much as my stubborn, hard ass wanted to say I would never be that weak, I also knew that there was no pain like I had felt since her passing.
Left alone with no one to give a shit, hell, maybe the end to grief would have been a lot more tempting than living on.
"You don't have to thank me. I told you I would be there for you when you needed me, love. That was what I was doing, being there for you. There's nothing to thank me for. This was right where I wanted to be."
There it was again.
That tightening, warm feeling in my chest.
It was almost like a pulling.
Like a chain dragging me closer to him.
Ugh.
How cheesy was that?
What was wrong with me?
That wasn't me. I wasn't that sentimental, sappy chick.
He was a good guy.
He had been good to me.
No need to go all fucking Bronte on him.
"Since you're hungry, and your culinary skills seem limited to adding water and spice packets to instant noodles," Edison said, pulling back to smile down at me, like he found my lack of cooking skills charming, "how about I make you some food, then we go from there?"
"So long as it isn't that crap you forced in me yesterday," I agreed, curling my lip.
He chuckled at that. "That crap was what my mother used to force in me when I was sick for prolonged periods of time. Full of vitamins and all that disgusting stuff. You've been living on bread. I wanted to get something else in you."
