“Forgot what?” Luke’s eyes search my face.
“I forgot what day it was.”
Luke frowns with confusion as he processes the words, but then recognition flashes through his eyes, and I know he understands what I haven’t said.
“Is this the first time you’ve forgotten since it happened?” he asks gently.
I can only nod, feeling my throat go tight as a fresh wave of tears threatens to surface.
Luke looks up at the ceiling, contemplating. “When my dad died, I was still pretty young. I felt grown up at the time, but I was really just a kid. I loved my dad, despite hating his guts at times, but I wasn’t prepared to lose him when I did. As you know,mygrief took the form of anger. Anger toward him for dying, anger toward my mother for marrying someone else less than a year later. I was angry at the world.
“That anger followed me foryears. It was a constant undercurrent in my life, always there, right beneath the surface. I would lose my temper over the stupidest things, blow up at people who didn’t deserve it… It wasn’t healthy, but I couldn’t imagine it any other way after a while. That anger was a part of me. It wasn’t until I left for New York and started a new life that I noticed the anger slowly fading. Not gone, but easier to live around. I can still find myself there sometimes, as fresh and raw as the day he died.”
A twinge of complicated emotion flits across his face, his stare distant. It eases more of the ache in my body to hear confirmation that I’m not the only one who carries the weight ofthe past so heavily on my shoulders. Like I’m not a total fuckup to find myself teetering under the pressure.
“People like to say that time heals all wounds, but that’s not how I see it.” Luke takes a deep breath. “When someone you love dies, they leave a hole in you that can never be filled. That hole never gets larger, but it never gets smaller, either. No matter how much time passes, it stays there forever, always a part of you. But you grow around it eventually, so it seems easier to live with. Easier to move on from it.”
“Why does it hurt so much to move on?” I ask, my eyes stinging.
Luke looks at me again, a depth of knowing sadness in his gaze. He smiles as he reaches out to take my hand and intertwines our fingers.
“Because admitting that you’ve grown past the pain feels like you’re losing a part of yourself. It’s normal,” he insists, squeezing my hand. “You’re not losing anything or leaving something behind. Your dad’s influence on your life will be with you until the day you die, and his absence will never be completely forgotten, even if it gets easier knowing he’s not here. Even if you find yourself missing him less and less as time moves on because you’re not thinking about him as much, that’s not a disservice to his memory or how important he was in your life. That’s just how it works.”
“Why does it sound logical when you say it?” I huff a disbelieving laugh.
Luke’s smile grows. “When you’re not in the proper frame of mind, it can take an outsider to help you remember.”
I suppose he’s right. It’s not like this is new information after my years of extensive therapy, but amidst my panic and paralysis, I couldn’t remember any of it. Now, I’m wondering if Luke hadn’t come over when he did, how long would it have taken me to get back there on my own?
Closing my eyes, I let the truth of Luke’s words wash over me. Taking stock of where I am and how I feel, I can’t deny that there’s been a shift in a more positive direction. I’m still exhausted and not back up to par, but at least I’m no longer underwater. I curl into Luke’s chest, and he welcomes me happily, tangling his fingers in my hair. It doesn’t take long for me to drift off in the comfort of his embrace.
When I open my eyes again, my room is dark, and Luke is gone.
It’s pitch-black outside, but a glance at my phone tells me it’s only eight o’clock, which means I haven’t been asleep for very long. Still, I can’t deny how rested I feel for the first time all day. Something about being in Luke’s arms let me relax enough to actually sleep, even if he chose to leave once I’d finally gotten there.
I don’t know if I should be shocked that he left without even saying goodbye, despite the circumstances. The nagging thought that this is somehow my fault doesn’t have as much bite when I know this has been Luke’s habit for almost as long as we’ve dated. But would one night have honestly killed him?
Suddenly, there’s a noise downstairs, like something metallic crashing to the floor, and I sit up in bed with a start. My first thought is that there’s an intruder in the house, but that seems too unlikely to be realistic. There’s nothing but cows and cornfields surrounding me, and the house bears no obvious signs of wealth to make it a target for thieves. But if it’s not a burglar…does that mean Luke didn’t leave after all?
I peel myself out from under the covers with some effort, and after a quick pitstop to the bathroom to pee and splash some water on my face, I head downstairs to check it out.
Sure enough, Luke is in the kitchen, and that knot in my chest from thinking he’d left eases at the sight of him. It’s quickly replaced with concern as I walk into the room, and a wall of confusing odor hits me. He’s clearly cookingsomething, but the smell is indistinguishable other than a whiff of burning.
My jaw drops when I notice the level of devastation to the counters. Pots and pans of all sizes are scattered in disarray—some dirty, others clean. Bits of chopped vegetables are strewn about different surfaces, and what looks like a broken egg is dripping onto the floor. The entire fridge seems to have been emptied onto the counter, and only god knows why.
“What are you doing?” I ask, slightly horrified as I survey my beautiful kitchen in chaos.
Luke obviously didn’t hear me come downstairs because he whirls around and stares at me like a deer caught in headlights. He bites his lower lip, shrugging sheepishly. “Making spaghetti.”
“Spaghetti?” I balk. How on earth would he need so many things to make an arguably simple dish?
“You didn’t have any pasta sauce, so I tried making it myself.”
“Withwhat?” I dubiously eye the broken egg and other non-typical spaghetti ingredients spread across the counters. Is that…peanut butter? Oh, god.
“I honestly don’t remember.” Luke shrugs nonchalantly and turns back to the bubbling liquid on the stove. He starts scraping away at it with a spatula in a way that a liquid should not need to be scraped. “I started picking things out that I thought would go good in it and sort of got carried away.”
“Is that…edible?” I frown. “God, what is thatsmell?”
