“Britain?” A familiar male’s voice sounds over the line.
“Hi, Silas.”
“What’s going on? You okay?”No.
“I’m fine.”Lie.
“Okay, do you want to talk about it?” He asks. I sigh.
“I’m just struggling today, Silas. Well, not just today, but today has been a particularly hard day, and I just need to rest and spend the day at home. I’m sorry to cancel on such short notice. I’m happy to pay the fee, or if you even need to bill me for the whole appointment, that’s fine, too. I just can’t be there today, and pretend to be happy. Like everything’s fine when it’s not.” My voice cracks on my last few words.
“Brit, I’m so sorry. It’s completely fine. I’m going to move your appointment to next Thursday, same time. Take the day and rest. Please. Next time, just text me. You don’t have to call in, okay?”
“Thanks, Silas.” I can’t say much more or I’ll start crying.
“Do you need a counseling referral?”
“I’m already seeing someone, but thank you.”
“Please text me if anything changes or comes up, okay?”
“I will.”
“Alright, take care. I’ll see you next week.”
“Okay, bye.”
“Bye.” The call ends and I feel the smallest bit of relief flow through me. I haven’t just taken a day to grieve since those first few weeks at Georgia’s house. Maybe that’s why I felt better back then; I was just letting myself feel everything, and maybe that was the healing part.
I open the glove box for a napkin to dry my eyes, but then remember the car is new and hasn’t had its inaugural fast food journey.No napkins. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and start the drive down the mountain. First stop, In-N-Out, second stop, ice cream, last stop, home. I need this. I need to just let myself be sad, so I can eventually be happy.It’s a plan.
FIVE
Britain
There’s nothing like a dead silent drive down mountain roads to give you a little bit of clarity. So after picking up In-N-Out and my emotional support ice cream, I headed home on a mission. I dropped everything on the kitchen island and bounded straight upstairs to my closet.
Picking up my old phone, I power it off once and for all. I’ll officially disconnect the line when I have the bandwidth to deal with the phone company. But this is it; no more weekly texts. No more holding out hope. It’s not worth my sanity.
I drop the phone into my underwear drawer —no need to keep charging it anymore— and head back downstairs. I grab the ice cream and walk out to the garage to put it in the chest freezer, but I halt when I open the door. My Porsche is parked in here, hidden from my everyday view. I never could bring myself to get rid of it.
I drop the ice cream in the freezer, then move to the car and open the door. It seems like a simple task, but it feels monumental. It's another hurdle to clear on the path to movingpast Liam. It’s only been driven once in the last month or so, and the last time I drove it myself was on my way to Colton’sthat night.
I slide into the driver’s seat, like some sort of exposure therapy I’m forcing myself to endure. Even though it’s hot enough to fry an egg on the hood, I close the door. I hate to admit it, but I do it so the smell of Liam’s aftershave doesn’t fade faster than it already is. I inhale his woodsy scent, thinking about the trip we took to Yosemite right before he left for Sonoma.Before I spread Georgia's ashes.Remembering that time feels like a kettlebell sitting on my chest. It probably isn’t helping that it's at least 120 degrees in here with the door shut.
I don’t want to get rid of this car, but I should probably get an air freshener if I want it to stop smelling like crippling pain. When I open the door and lean on the steering wheel to pull myself out of the low seat, something in the rearview mirror stops me.Hissweatshirt is draped over the backseat, like a relic from the past. I lean back in to get it, then slam the door shut. I just stand there in the garage, holding the sweatshirt like it’s some sort of magical talisman because this is his sweatshirt. Not the one he gave me to wear, buthis. And it still smells like him.
“Where are we going, babe?” Liam just looks over at me and smiles before extending his arm over to rest his hand on my leg. I love it when he does that. That hand is like an unwritten declaration.Mine.“You’re really not going to tell me?!”
“If I did, it wouldn’t be much of a surprise.”
“You’re killing meeeee. Please?” I ask, just shy of fully begging.
“Definitely not.”
“If I guess it, will you tell me?”
“No.”
