“I don’t like him,” I add. “Be careful.”
She regards me, eyes wide and her jaw slack. “You don’t even know him.”
“Yeah. I should, though. I’ll come with you. You can introduce me.”
“I… That’s…” She sighs. “Fine.”
“What do you have to talk to him about?”
“The schedule. The menus. When we need the tea and scones. We’re going to have a beverage station set up for hot chocolate and coffee and tea and juice for the kids, and a buffet breakfast Saturday and Sunday morning.”
I nod slowly. Once again, this seems like a big undertaking that she’s doing all herself.
We fall silent. She picks up a piece of cheese and takes a bite, looking intently at the fire as if it might reveal the secrets to climate change.
“Do you ever think about Kane?”
Jesus.
11
AYLA
Carson tenses beside me and the air in the room goes heavy. He takes a gulp of wine, then says quietly, “Of course I do.”
“Really?”
He eyes me. “Yeah. Sometimes.”
I nod slowly. “I think about him all the time. Not every minute of the day. But a lot.” I pause for a sip of wine. “I go into his bedroom every day. Sometimes, I sit in the rocking chair for a while just to think about him. I try to remember how he smelled, all warm and baby powder. How soft his skin was. His gummy smile. God. That smile.”
I’m talking about it, but my insides don’t feel shredded like they used to.
“I’m so scared I’m going to forget him,” I whisper.
Carson’s jaw hardens.
“You don’t like talking about him.”
He flicks a glance my way, his mouth set in a harsh line. His voice is flat when he says through clenched teeth, “I’m trying to get on with life.”
Anger flushes hot through my body, burning in my stomach. “Oh, I know.” His desire to “get on with life” pissed me off. It feltlike a betrayal. And that was a double loss. I’d lost my son… and my husband betrayed me. It made me angry. It made my grief even deeper. It made me doubt myself and question our love.
I didn’t want to talk about what happened either, at first. I was a zombie. But then… Iwantedto talk about my baby. About how I felt. I wanted Carson to talk about it, too. I thought that wouldhelphim move on. But he shut me down all the time, saying he was fine, he’d dealt with it, he was moving on.
The firelight flickers warmly over the room, the silence thick. I stare into it and sip my wine, trying to temper my anger. I swallow and say, “I wish things could have been different.”
“Fuck.” He shakes his head. “No shit. I wish that fucking asshole that T-boned us had never been born. I wish that accident had never happened.”
“Well, yes.” Of course I wish the accident never happened. But that was out of our control. Itdidhappen. We have to deal with it. And how we deal with itisin our control. But Carson’s idea of control is different than mine in this situation. And I know he loves to be in control. I give him a sideways glance, his face still carved in stone. “But I meant what happened after the accident.”
His mouth twists into a bitter pucker. I can see him struggling about what to say. In the end, he says nothing.
I was supposed to take care of everyone else. But I fell apart. And when I tried to claw my way back to actually living, to helping Carson deal with his grief, I couldn’t. I couldn’t help him.
My lungs constrict and my throat tightens. It still hurts.
This was a bad idea, inviting Carson to spend days with me in a hotel room. Or cottage. Whatever. It’s just bringing back those old feelings and old hurts. Those hopeless wishes and futile efforts.
