Page 17 of The Fixer

It’d been two years since I’d had any man other than my father in my life, and the self-imposed loneliness felt as comfortable as an old pair of sweats. Nothing much to look at, awkward when you wanted to go out, but soothing and safe when you curled up on the couch with a good book.

With a sip of my coffee and a bite of my sandwich, I looked around the bustling cafe and felt that loneliness wrapping around me like a second skin. It was too snug and yet baggy, the stench of my solitary life wafting off me and keeping others away. My throat felt tight as I swallowed against the scrape of the sourdough as it passed over my tongue.

Before I could wallow too deeply in my self-pity or suffocate on the grief that was still so rife and quick, my phone lit up and a smile grazed my lips.

“Hey, honey,” I said after a swipe of the screen revealed my best friend’s beautiful face.

“Hey, pumpkin! How are you feeling?”

“I’m doing okay.”

“Did you—? Wait, are you—?” She leaned closer to her phone’s screen, moving her head as if she could peer through and see around me. “Are you out of your apartment?”

Lifting my paper cup so she could see it on the screen, I raised one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “I sure am.”

“Wow.” Brooke leaned back, her eyes cataloging every inch of my face. “You’re smiling. You’re out of the house. And it looks like you got dressed. What gives? What’s going on?”

With another shrug, I poked at some of the crumbs left from my sandwich. “I’m going to Dad’s work. I need to go through his things, see what there is to be seen. I think I’m going to talk to Niles to see if he knows anyone I could sell to.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want to do?” Brooke asked, even though it was her idea in the first place.

And I was sure. Especially after talking to Jet.

He’d listened to me ramble on about it. Listened as I fretted and moped. He’d listened, legs spread wide, elbows on his knees, leaning toward me as he watched me scrub a spot of spaghetti sauce off my black shirt, sitting there in his spotless white button-up and a smile hanging on his lips.

“Liza? Sweetie?” My friend moved closer to her screen, her dark brow furrowed as she scoured my face. “Your cheeks just got all red. Are you feeling okay?”

I pressed my palm to my cheek, then my forehead, my skin impossibly hot. “It’s just warm in here,” I insisted. “The sun. And the coffee.”

The memories.

Why did I have to embarrass myself every time I was around him?

“Do you need any help?” Brooke asked after a beat. “I’m sure I could move things around a little and come by before we leave. Or maybe Eric could—”

“No,” I said, shaking my head and remembering Jet’s encouragement the night before, his big hand covering mine on my leg. “I can do this. And I need to. It might help me grieve. And besides, Niles will be there, so it’s not like I’ll be alone.”

“You sure?” she asked even as a thin wave of relief swept over her big brown eyes.

“I’m sure.”

“You let me know if it’s too much? If you need any help? We don’t leave until three.”

“I will.” I balled up my sandwich wrapper and grabbed my purse. “I should go. I’m sure there’s a lot to do.”

My friend offered me a sad smile. “I’ll call you later?”

“Of course. Love you!”

“Love you, too!”

Pushing out of my chair, I picked up my coffee and left the cafe. The morning sun felt fresh and clean on my skin, washing away flecks of my loneliness as I slowly crawled out of my self-imposed cave. I found a cab without issue and hopped inside, enjoying my coffee as the car took me downtown. By the time we’d pulled up outside the building Westbrook & Murphy was in, my coffee was almost gone. I paid the cabbie, stepped out on the curb, and took one last fortifying drink.

I needed every last drop of it to gather the courage to go inside.

The office was just as I remembered, tucked into the corner on the forty-second floor. That gorgeous sunlight was dampened slightly by the offices lining the wall of windows, and the heaviness I’d been carrying around inside of me swelled as it grew cold. Vera Fraser, the lady who had run the front desk for as long as I could remember, stood as I entered, and came around the desk to my side.

“Miss Eliza,” she said, voice aquiver as she wrapped me in her arms. Her frail-looking hands felt solid and durable on my back, her purple-tinged curls smelled like lavender and honey. Wrinkles lined her face and her sad eyes cut through me like a knife. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”