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“Oh yeah, of course,” Jayce said, sounding distracted.

“Oh, right, a contract,” Maye realized. “I get one of those to sign, right? Terms and conditions, and stuff like that?”

“Make sure it includes the essential clause,” Tracy added hastily.

“It’s all standard verbiage,” Jayce said. “I’ll get you something to sign soon.”

“The Santa Claus!” Tracy shouted, and then laughed loudly at her own joke, as she did every time she landed a perfectly timed pun.

“But listen, I gotta run,” Jayce said. “This is great news and I’ll be in touch soon.”

After Jayce left the call, Tracy sounded giddy, but also semi-distracted in the way she sounded when she was trying to read road signs.

“Tracy, are you driving and talking on the phone again?”

“We’re on our way to dinner. I didn’t want to miss your call.”

“Goodbye, Tracy!”

This time when Maye put her phone down, she felt excited. She was taking control of her life. She crumpled up the empty Mangia takeout bags and tossed each one toward the trash barrel in the kitchen. The first one hit the countertop and fell to the floor. The second one landed in the empty alfredo container Randall had left on top of the trash barrel and then rolled onto the floor. Stupid Randall, she thought. That shot was in all the way.

Part Two:

Snowy Sophomore

- 4 -

Grieving Period

By Sunday morning, Maye was already reeling from her weekend. She went from thinking she was about to get engaged to getting dumped to arguing with an actor live on the internet to agreeing to co-host some kind of vague holiday-sounding show with said actor. Not to mention she couldn’t go anywhere in Greenville without bumping into someone who was fully caught up on her personal life and, in some cases, more knowledgeable about what was going on in her life than she was. Especially, that pesky barista who was all up in her business and obviously wanted to play smoochy face with Randall. A classic case of mate poaching by someone with undiagnosed attachment and availability issues, Maye thought. But Maye was slightly optimistic about her cousin’s propos—her cousin’s idea to help raise her spirits. Tracy said she would make all the plans, so Maye knew there were fun things to look forward to.

By Sunday night, Maye had moved Randall’s clothes to the back of a closet. She had shoved them into a trash bag, fully intending to chuck them into the dumpster, but once everything was packed and the condo was looking more organized, the rage that was fueling her had tempered a bit. Plus, she didn’t feel like walking all the way down to the dumpster with the heavy bag of clothes. So she shoved the bag to the back of a closet and felt pretty good about that. With the main spaces in her condo put back together and the kitchen counters and floors wiped clean, Randall’s absence was much more noticeable. All of the noises that were typically disguised by her and Randall puttering around, like creaking wood floors and muted voices, and doors opening and closing, seemed amplified. Even her refrigerator sounded louder than normal. Did it always sound like that? So she put on some music. And that’s when the inevitable, shadowy, cloaked monster that is grief crept in. It snuck up on Maye when her guard was down. At first, she was bopping around to bangers like “Sorry,” “Watermelon Sugar,” and “Manchild” while assembling her salad for the next day’s lunch. But then, the stupid algorithm had the stupid idea to play “Unsteady.” And when those harmonies hit the first time they sang that chorus, Maye became a puddle on her freshly cleaned kitchen floor. She heaved, and tears streamed down her face. For years, Maye had been so concerned with finally establishing stability and a sense of place. She craved routine and predictability, so she protected herself with a simple, cozy life. But she had sheltered herself and become a passenger as life happened around her. Her chest ached and she wheezed, sobbing all over the floor she had just cleaned. She felt alone; she wanted someone to hold on to her; she felt unsteady.

Crumbled up on her kitchen floor, she recalled late-night rides during her dad’s tours when she would snuggle up next to him until she fell asleep. For a lot of years, she resented her father for his selfish decision to make her and her mother join him on the road with bands. She made peace with that a long time ago, but suddenly felt an extra level of clarity. Her dad chose her. Every time. He wanted her with him. Every time she complained about it, he calmly explained that he didn’t want to be away from her. “Mija, mi corazón” he’d say. His heart. She bawled again thinking about how she had practically begged Randall to take her with him.

She missed her dad. She couldn’t call him like that, though. It would worry him too much. Plus, she wasn’t sure what time zone or even continent he was on at the moment. He was often out adventuring, enjoying his retirement. She made a mental note to check in with him.

Maye knew she needed to sit and feel her feelings, anyway. She hadn’t cried all weekend. It wasn’t just momentary sadness. It was an emotional release and the beginning of the grieving process.

As a psychologist, Maye talked about the stages of grief regularly and encouraged her patients to acknowledge them and move through each stage at their own pace. She encouraged her patients to give themselves time to cope and reminded them that grief was not a linear process. She recommended journaling, exercising, establishing routines, and even performing simple rituals to honor their loss and usher in the next phase. So, naturally, Maye created a calendar to give herself one week per stage of grief, estimating she would have fully processed her loss by the end of August. Early September at the latest. She circled August 31 on her calendar. Done day. D-Day.

Maye started the first Monday of grief with journaling. Since it was the start of a new season for her, the occasion called for a brand-new notebook from her stash of the many empty notebooks she was holding on to. She put on some calming music and began.

Stage 1. Denial. I will sit in the disbelief and embrace the urge to downplay or even downright deny the reality of what is happening. Intellectually, I know Randall left, but my emotions need to adjust. It’s okay to feel like this isn’t real. It’s normal to avoid stating the obvious. Let the denial run wild this week. Try to start new routines and make new emotional connections. Easy to say that now. Let’s see how I do.

The easiest part of Maye’s week was meeting with clients. Not only was it a welcome distraction, but she felt like she was listening more intently than she had been over the last few weeks or months.

The afternoon before Randall left, for example, her copy of Twilight caught her eye on the bookshelf behind her client’s head. She thought about all the books she was introduced to by the concert promoters she met while on tour with her dad. That was the beginning of her love for reading. She finished Twilight in four days after Seth left it backstage for her in Michigan. Lee introduced her to the Gemma Doyle series when she visited a venue in Pittsburgh, and Chad had the first book in the Uglies series for her at a venue in North Carolina. Maye was impressed with the level of detail she could recall.

Her reading progressed as she matured, and her preferences shifted to small-town stories or anything that took place in one location. Some people read so they could escape to some faraway, exotic land, or be swept off their feet by a romantic love story, but she read to feel rooted and at home. As she grew up and feelings, emotions, and desires developed and changed, she started to resent the nomadic lifestyle that came with being the daughter of a touring musician. Reading books about young love made her feel like she had been conned out of normal teenage experiences, like school crushes, awkward first dates, and heartbreak. She would stare out the window of the tour bus as they zipped past highway mile markers and dream of the day when she could settle into a life of her own. A simple life, in a cozy home, a job in the same state, maybe even the same city where she lived. Yes, that was the type of life Maye Daniels dreamed of. And if that life also happened to include a smart, funny, easy-on-the-eyes soul mate who massaged her feet and back and cooked every night and loved his momma, she’d take that, too. But the priority for Maye was a simple, stationary life. A life that included Friday night takeout dinners from the family Italian spot in town. She’d get the chicken parmesan with extra sauce on the side, and her affectionate and attentive fiancé would get the Alfredo because he’d know that Maye also would like to have some. The two of them would slip into their comfy clothes, plop down on the couch with their two dogs, and eat from the takeout containers while watching the shows they’d been looking forward to catching up on all week. And the two dogs wouldn’t even beg for food. Because they’re very well-behaved dogs. Or maybe they’d rent a movie? Or maybe they would alternate between their shows and movies each week?

An extended silence had disrupted Maye’s daydream. Her client sat waiting, while Maye calmly adjusted in her seat and gazed off into the distance, feigning contemplation. She tapped her pen on her chin a few times, took a sharp breath in, and paused. Maye leaned forward in her chair and focused intently on her client and employed a trick that typically worked in those situations. She asked her client to repeat what they had just said and to really listen to the words they were saying. Then Maye paid extra close attention so she could catch up on what she had missed.

At least she wasn’t doing that anymore.

It was all the time in between client appointments that was hard for Maye. The office building she worked in had a small common area kitchen where employees could eat lunch and talk beside a literal water cooler. When co-workers asked about her weekend, she’d say, “It was great! Refreshing, even.” Eventually, when questions about Randall came up, Maye said, “He’s on a trip, a little vacation…” And that she was, “…actually enjoying the quiet time at home.” She had given herself permission to fully embrace the denial stage, after all.

Inevitably, as the week wore on, the rumor mill ramped up, and questions became more pointed. Finally, she was asked, “Where exactly is Randall? Jerry heard from Tony that he was hiking?”