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“Thanks for coming by.”
“Thanks for the invite. It’s a great place, Ry. You should be proud of yourself.”
He grinned. “Yeah, I am.”
That night, he lay in bed thinking about all the items he needed to buy. Good thing he padded his loan from the bank, because he basically needed everything from new faucets to curtains. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day.
Chapter 4
Deafening silence surrounded Maggie like a hand curled to her throat. The louder the stillness grew the more it choked her.
Pressure built in her chest as she battled to breathe. The urge to do it again gnawed at her nerve endings. Moisture gathered on her palms.
No more…
She’d done it over thirty times tonight and that was too much, even for her. Like an addict, she quivered as an internal war wreaked havoc on her insides. Her will battled with her heart, but both parts felt lost.
A cool sweat broke over her skin as her gaze jerked about random objects that turned shadows into curious shapes. Sometimes, if she let the laundry pile up on the chair it looked like he was sitting there, watching her in the dark. Tonight, the chair was empty.
She lay perfectly motionless in their bed, her body still favoring the right side, much like an amputee would still reach with a phantom hand. If she could just fall asleep, the need would go away until tomorrow. She could beat it if she outsmarted it. But her mind kept jolting awake, as if bargaining for an infinite second chance.
Just one more time and I’ll go to sleep…
Liar…
No, I mean it.
You never mean it.
You’re weak. Weak!
“Fuck.” Her fist punched the pillow. Her other hand squeezed the case of her cell phone.
She should break it. Throw it away.
Her heart whipped against her ribs and plunged into the pit of her stomach as she fell into an absolute panic. No, no, she would never break it. This was all she had left.
Her phone illuminated and she hit play. Her eyes squeezed shut, her heart finding solace in the familiar rumble that broke the silence.
“Hey, babe. It’s me. Call me when you get this.”
Her mouth curved, baring her teeth as a sob gutted her. Hot tears pushed against her lashes as overwhelming relief slowed her racing panic. One more time.
“Hey, babe. It’s me. Call me when you get this.”
Her body curled around his pillow, breathing in the scent that had long since faded. She cradled the phone to her chest. Some nights she needed to hear his voice more than others. Tonight was one of those nights.
She couldn’t explain this new layer of panic. She couldn’t shake the sense that something was coming, something … life altering. It terrified her.
Lately, it felt like an invisible force was pulling him away, more than destiny already had. She worried that one day she might wake up with half as many memories and no one to blame. Irrational, yes, but terrifying all the same.
She kept the light off, listening to the voicemail several more times until she fell asleep. When she woke the next morning, her phone lay in the curve of her palm.
Every day became a game with herself. How long could she go without listening to his voice? How many minutes could she make it without thinking of him? How many hours could she survive without falling completely apart?
To some, she might look like a first-class basket case. But she noted progress every day. The fact that she could go an hour without bursting into tears was huge.
In the beginning, she could barely make it through a minute. Keeping busy was key. Her need for privacy, however, added a challenge.
She hadn’t always been an introvert. But when Nash died, the pitying looks followed, and it made it impossible to socialize. First, she didn’t want to talk, but she knew healthy humans interacted with each other, so she did her best. Unfortunately, people only wanted to talk about her loss.
They’d tip their heads, pucker their brows, and look at her with pitying eyes. “How you holdin’ up?” they’d ask.
Like there could be any answer other than terrible. But that wasn’t what they wanted to hear.
If she made it to any social occasion, she was having a better than usual day. But people’s questions made her grief inescapable. She forced herself to get out of the house and try to appear normal. But in the end, everyone only saw a poor widow, which was exactly how she felt most days. She was a poor pathetic widow, who had no clue or desire how to live without her best friend.
Like every other morning, she dressed, filled her thermos with coffee, and threw on her hooded sweatshirt and hat. It was the same routine every day, and while others might not understand, it worked for her. Knowing she’d get to talk to Nash seemed the only motivation strong enough to get her out of bed and moving.
