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“So you decided to bake a cake?” he asks, his slippers shuffling across the floor. “Makes sense.” He shrugs and takes a seat on a barstool. “Your mom won’t let me eat cake anymore, but you’ll slip your old man a piece, right?”
“Of course.” I laugh lightly and stir the batter.
“You have some kind of powder on your nose,” he tells me. I rub it away, but I think I actually just smear it more. “Got a lot on your mind?” he prompts, playing with the pepper shaker.
“I guess you could say that.” I stir the batter like I’m trying to beat it into submission.
“Talk to me, Kid.” He looks up at me from beneath his fuzzy eyebrows. “I only seem to find you in the kitchen at the ass crack of dawn when you really need to talk,” he continues. “So talk.”
I set the bowl down with the batter and stick my hands on my hips. “It’s going to have been four months, dad. Four months without Ben. It feels like an eternity.” I put my hand over the slight roundness of my stomach. “I keep thinking about all the things he’s going to miss out on.”
“No, Kid.” He shakes his head rapidly. “Don’t focus on that. Instead, think about all the things he did get to do.”
“You don’t understand,” I mumble. “He won’t be here to see our child grow up. When they learn to walk and talk. Birthdays. Christmases. He’ll always be missing. I want this baby to love him the way he deserves to be loved, but you can’t love a ghost,” I whisper and look away, overcome with emotion.
“Blaire,” my dad says, his voice full of sadness. He gets up and comes around to hold me. I hold onto his robe and cry into his chest.
“I’m in love with a ghost, dad,” I whimper. “He’s never coming back, but I can’t let go.”
“B,” he says softly, worry clouding his voice, “you don’t have to let go. Moving on is different than letting go.”
“I miss him s-so much,” I sob, my words disjointed. I feel like I’ve said those words a million times but they’re not any less true now. I do miss him. All the time. Every minute. Every hour. Some part of me is always thinking of him.
“Sit here.” My dad guides me to a chair at the kitchen table. “I’ll be right back,” he says, holding his hands out in front of him. My knee bounces restlessly as I wait for him to return. When he does, he has something small clasped in his hands. “I found this a few weeks ago in the closet and I held onto it until you needed it. I haven’t read it, I promise.” He opens his hands, revealing the paper crane.
My breath catches in my throat. I haven’t found one in so long. So long. That I began to think there were no more. I take it gingerly from his hand and hold it in my palms.
My dad bends and kisses my forehead before leaving me alone with the paper crane.
I sit it on the table, just staring at it. A part of me doesn’t want to open it. What if it’s the last one? But I know I could never not open it.
I take my time unfolding the carefully-constructed origami bird.
I close my eyes when I see the thin black lines that form the words he wrote. I’m not ready to look yet. I need a moment.
I inhale a deep breath and exhale slowly.
; When I open my eyes, his messy handwriting appears before me.
When you’re feeling down, just look to the sky and be thankful that you’re alive. We all have bad days, but we should never let them make us forget how great it is to live. On those days where it feels like you can’t keep your head up do something nice for someone else. It’ll make you feel better. Trust me. Especially if that someone is me and your ‘something nice’ includes blowjobs.
—Ben
I can’t help it, I laugh. That’s my Ben. Sweet and romantic one second a complete wise ass the next.
I fold the note back up so that it’s a paper crane once more.
“Thanks, Ben,” I say out loud. “I needed that, and I know exactly what to do.”
I walk into Group with my shoulders back and my chin held high. I’m armed with sheets of paper and sharpies. There are a few people already there when I step into the gym, but I’m early so it still gives me a chance to speak with Ryder. He looks up when I walk into the room, his eyes instantly drawn to me. I’m not sure he even notices but his lips lift into a crooked smile and his eyes sparkle. I walk up to him and he excuses himself from speaking to Amy.
“What’s that you’ve got there?” He points at the sheets of paper I clasp to my chest and the markers in my other hand.
“My something nice,” I say with a shrug. His brows furrow in confusion. “It’s my way of healing,” I whisper softly. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to explain to everyone and see if they’d like to help.”
“Of course.” He smiles widely. “But you’re not going to tell me first?”
