Morning light filters through the sheer curtains of the bedroom window. This cottage is meant to be bright and airy. A happy place to make summer memories. It’s the exact opposite of what I need right now.
I squeeze my eyes shut and roll over, wincing from the pain in my neck and shoulders. It’s no use though. I’ve been up for hours, and no matter how hard I try, I know I won’t sleep. Not with Owen’s scent still on the pillow next to mine, and the realization that he didn’t just pop out for a coffee run. That he’s gone and I’ll never see him again.
The bedroom door creaks open, and Mom peers in. She looks just as exhausted as I feel. I doubt she got much sleep on the couch.
“You awake, Baby Girl?”
I nod, not quite ready to speak.
She comes in and sits on the edge of the bed, wrapping her hand over mine under the covers. “I made coffee and there was some pancake mix, so I whipped up a quick batch.”
Pancakes.Heart-shaped and lumpy.
Something breaks inside me and a low sob escapes from somewhere deep in my throat. There’s nothing I can do to stop it.
“Oh, baby.” Mom lays beside me, hugging one arm over my body. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“He made pancakes,” I choke out. “Every morning. He…”
I can’t finish. I just cry into her shoulder while she rubs my back like she did when I was a little girl and I scraped my knee.
“I know,” she whispers. “I know, sweetheart.”
But she doesn’t know. She can never know.
He was so good to me. God, I never deserved him. She can hold me and soothe me but no one will know that while Owen was planning for our future, I still thought about his brother. About what could have been. She’ll never know that while I sob in her arms, half my pain is from guilt as much as grief.
Eventually the sobs slow and I summon the strength to sit up in bed. My throat is raw and my eyes burn and I feel completely hollowed out.
Mom smooths my hair back from my face. “You don’t have to eat. I just needed to do something, to feel useful, you know?”
I nod, understanding completely.
“I’m not hungry right now, but thank you.”
Normally she’d push me to eat, but she knows I won’t. That I get this way when I’m stressed or upset, either loading up on every kind of food I can find, or not eating a single thing for days. I’ve been this way since I was a teenager. Binge eating disorder, my psychiatrist told me, when mom finally forced me to see someone. It’s gotten better to the point where small issues don’t trigger me as much, but shit like this…who knows how far I’ll be set back?
We sit there for a while in silence, my mom rubbing circles on the back of my hand with her thumb. I know she’s holding in what she wants to say. That I’ll need to call Dr. Mead again, thatI should use the tools I’ve learned. It’s on the tip of her tongue, but she must realize I don’t need to hear it. Not today.
“I should get up,” I finally say, even though the thought of leaving this bed feels impossible.
“Take your time. There’s no rush.”
But there is. Because every second I lie here, I’m surrounded by Owen. His pillows. His suitcase in the corner still unpacked. His phone charger on the nightstand. His presence everywhere except where it should be. I force myself to stand, biting back a groan as my bruised ribs protest.
“Easy.” Mom helps steady me with gentle hands on my shoulders. “The doctor said you’d be sore for a while.”
Sore is such an inadequate word for how my body feels. It’s like I’ve been hit by a truck. I feel like I should, I guess…like I survived something I wasn’t meant to.
Like I should have died with Owen.
I make it to the bathroom on shaky legs, shutting the door before Mom can follow.
When I look into the mirror I barely recognize the person staring back at me. There’s dark circles under my eyes, a cut on my forehead with butterfly stitches, bruises blooming purple and yellow along my collarbone and shoulders. My hair is a tangled mess and I need to shower desperately.
I look like I survived a roller coaster derailment.
Because I did.
