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I finish up with my emails and then grab a book, settling onto the couch to read for a while. It’s nice to have a moment home by myself where I’m actually comfortable alone. I don’t feel worried about anything or overcome by the fact that Ben’s gone. I still have a long way to go, but I’m getting there, and that counts for something.
I’m almost finished with the book when my parents arrive home. I set the book down as they come inside. My dad holds a takeout box in his hand and shoves it at me.
“Here you go, Kid,” he says before taking a seat beside me. He lets out a groan. “I ate too much,” he complains as he rubs a hand over his stomach.
I open the box and nearly moan out loud when I open the box and see the chicken tenders, fries, and honey mustard sauce.
“You know me well,” I say to my mom when she comes into the room.
She laughs and sits on my other side. “I know you love your chicken tenders, but I’m pretty sure it’s the honey mustard you love more.”
“You’re right.” I shrug, already dunking a chicken tender into the sauce. I take a bite and moan again. “So good.”
“So what’s this mysterious news of yours?” my mom asks, vibrating with barely-contained energy.
“I … um … I’m starting a charity in memory of Ben. Maybe not a charity, per se, but a movement.” I take another bite of chicken tender—I’m pretty sure nothing has ever tasted this good before.
“And?” she prompts when I’m too busy stuffing my face to continue.
“Oh, right,” I say, wiping my hands on my pants. Very lady-like, I know. “I call it The Paper Crane Project. Basically, the goal is to spread the love and happiness Ben gave me in the notes. A random act of kindness sort of thing,” I explain. “Like Ben did, I’m going to have people write short notes and make them into paper cranes to leave around at random places. Hopefully someone will find them and it’ll make their day.” I go back to stuffing my face. When my mom begins to cry, my eyes widen in surprise. “What? Why are you crying? I’m usually the one crying,” I muse.
She laughs through her tears. “It’s just … I’m so proud of you, Blaire. You’ve been through so much and I think this is an excellent way to honor Ben. There’s no better way, honestly.”
I smile. “You think?”
“I know.” She nods and reaches over to rub her fingers over my cheek. “You’re so strong, Blaire. So much stronger than you think you are.”
I shake my head. “You’re wrong.”
“A mother’s never wrong.” She kisses my forehead and stands. “I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks.” Emotion clogs my throat as she and my dad leave the room to get ready for bed.
I feel like I’ve barely been getting by, but maybe she’s right. Maybe I am stronger than I think. I haven’t given up, and that has to count for something.
Ivy and I end up meeting to get an early dinner instead of coffee. I told her I couldn’t stomach any more hot tea this week and she agreed to the change in plans.
I park in front of the restaurant and head inside to wait to meet her. I’ve only spoken to her briefly in Group and pretty much the only thing I know about her is that she knew how to make the paper cranes.
I tell the hostess that I’m waiting for someone, and she nods as I take a seat on the bench.
Ivy arrives a few minutes later and cries, “I’m sorry I’m late.”
I dismiss her words with a shake of my head. “You’re not late, I was early,” I tell her.
The hostess takes us to our seats and we both look over the menus. I’m only looking at mine to be polite. I know exactly what I want. Chicken tenders. I think this might be my first official pregnancy craving. Since the night my mom brought me home the takeout I’ve wanted them every night since.
We place our drink order when the waiter stops by and then Ivy goes back to looking at the menu. I slide mine to the edge of the table.
She must finally make her decision because a few seconds later she slides hers over as well.
The waiter returns with our drinks and takes our order before leaving again.
I take a sip of my water. “So,” I begin, “how are you?” I don’t really know what to say to her so that seems like a safe enough option.
“As good as I can be.” She plays with the paper from her straw. She’s a beautiful woman, older than me—probably in her late thirties—with dark skin and eyes. Her hair is short and she’s dressed stylishly in a pair of skinny jeans, heels, a billowy white top, and a gray jacket. “Grief is strange, isn’t it?” she muses. “I didn’t want to talk about that with you, and yet I find that it’s the only thing on my mind—missing him, I mean.”
“Your husband?” I ask.
