A knock on my front door startles me. I pull the sweatshirt down so it’s covering my ass, and hurry across my small apartment to see who it is.
“Sawyer,” Mom says, knocking again. “Open up.”
Great. As if I wasn’t already overwhelmed. I open the door to let her in.
“You’re not ready?” She looks me up and down. “The services start at 11.”
I groan. “I know. I’m getting dressed.”
She drops a bag of groceries on my kitchen counter. “Did you eat this morning? I can make you some breakfast? Toast, maybe? Or I could scramble some eggs?”
My stomach churns at the thought. “I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat something. You barely touched dinner last night.”
I didn’t touch the pasta and meat sauce she made when she dropped me off at all actually. But I did finish off a box of frozen Thin Mints I found in my freezer at 2 AM.
“I’ll eat after. I promise.”
Cabinet doors open and close with a thud. “Fine, but I’m making you some tea. You’ll always drink a cup of tea.”
Jesus Christ.
“Okay, Mom.”
Pots and pans clang around, but I pay her no more mind. This dress isn’t going to put itself on.
I peel off Owen’s sweatshirt, feeling like I’ve lost a layer of skin. I’ve been sleeping in it every night, and it’s starting to lose his scent.
I grab the dress and step into it. The fabric is cool against my skin as I pull it up my chest and zip it up as much as I can reach. It fits the same as it did three years ago. I guess grief doesn’t change your dress size, even when it feels like it’s hollowing you out from the inside.
Okay, one thing done. Now makeup. I’m already exhausted, but I can’t face them without it, not when I look exactly how I feel. Bruised, empty, and barely hanging by a thread. All of Ashford will be there, I’m not going to give them another reason to whisper their gossip.
I stare at my reflection in my bedroom mirror. Circles line my eyes, thicker than ever before. I doubt concealer will hide them. My skin’s paler than usual. My lips are chapped from crying. The cut on my forehead is still pink and healing.
I look like a ghost. I don’t think I’ve been this pale since seventh grade, when I tried to be goth.
Reaching for my makeup bag, I work on autopilot. Foundation. Concealer. A little blush so I don’t look like I belong in a casket. Mascara. Waterproof, thank God. Owen always said I didn’t need a ton of makeup. He was sweet like that, and also completely wrong.
I grab my black heels from the bottom of my closet and slip them on. Time to cosplay as a woman who has her shit together. Shouldn’t be too hard, considering I’ve been doing exactly that for years now.
My phone is still on the bed, and as I grab it, the ring box catches my eye again. Without thinking it through, I open it and slip the ring onto my left ring finger. It fits perfectly. Owen must have somehow gotten my size. Of course he did. He was a planner, even if he was oblivious to details sometimes.
I rub the tip of my finger over the smooth edges of the diamond, turning my hand from side to side to let the sunlight catch and sparkle. Tears clog my throat.
“Fuck.” I fan my palms over my face, trying to keep the tears at bay.
My phone buzzes again with another text. Melissa from work again.
Also we’re short-staffed this weekend if you happen to be available?
Again, totally understand if not!
This weekend…meaning tomorrow. They want me back literally twenty-four hours after burying my boyfriend.
I type back quickly, not giving her time to lay anymore guilt on my chest.
I’ll be back Monday.
