Page 63 of When Lemons Give You Life

The poor young guy I’ve just body-slammed barely stumbles. “Are you okay?” His voice is too deep for his baby face.

“Yes, I’m fine, sorry.” I clutch the fallen magazine to my chest, trying to compose myself but instead burst into tears.

That’s the other thing about grief. It doesn’t heal in a straight line, if it heals at all. It’s not a neat, scabbing-over kind of wound. Some days, it’s a dull ache in the background, easy to ignore. But then something, anything, can rip it open again, fresh and raw, as though no time has passed.

The young man gestures to a chair. “Come sit for a minute. I’ll grab you something to drink.” He disappears and returns with a Styrofoam cup of tea and a packet of individually wrapped Scotch Finger biscuits.

I’m still blubbering, which makes the whole thing even more pathetic.

He places a tentative hand on my shoulder then quickly pulls back, as if he’s worried I might combust. “Sorry, don’t know how you take your tea, so it’s just black.”

I wipe my eyes. “This is great. Thank you. It’s been one of those days. I’m missing my friend Beau terribly.”

“Oh,” he says, frowning. “Where is he?”

“He died,” I whisper, crying again. “He was so young. He got sick, and it moved so fast. There was nothing anyone could do.”

The boy nods, his own eyes dimming. “Yeah. I get it. My nan died last year. Cancer. Moved like lightning.”

“I’m so sorry.” I open the packet and offer him a biscuit.

He eyes it hesitantly. “You sure? These are meant for visitors.”

I break one in half and offer it to him. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

He barks out a laugh. “Fair point.”

We sit in comfortable silence, munching on the buttery shortbread.

“So, you visiting a parent?” he asks.

“My brother. Griff. He has dementia. Beau was his husband; this was his magazine subscription.”

“It’s good of you to visit. Must be difficult.”

“Yeah. He doesn’t speak anymore, which is hard. I’ve spent so much time in this place, I should be on the payroll. Have you been here long?” I ask, glancing at his uniform.

“Couple of months. I’m hoping they’ll give me more shifts; I just do weekends at the moment.”

The glass doors slide open and a family steps through, a shaggy golden retriever trotting proudly at their heels.

The young man’s face lights up as they pass.

“You like dogs?” I ask

“Love them. I lost my kelpie a couple of years back but haven’t been ready to get another. Cheeky thing. She used to eat socks from the clothesline.”

I smile. “Well, if you’re ever looking for extra work, my friend runs the doggy day spa on Ray Street. I work there as a groomer and I know she’s desperate for dog walkers at the moment. Pays cash.”

“Oh, really? Yeah, I’d be very keen.”

“Great! Give me your number and I’ll text you the details.”

He rattles it off and I key it in.

“I’m Lisa, by the way. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name . . . ?”

“Hi, Lisa, I’m Scotty.”