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My old life feels like it’s a million miles away. Pulling in front of the diner, I turn the ignition off and sit quietly, trying to focus my thoughts. I take slow, deep breaths, endeavoring to feel myself in my body. But at this very moment in time, I can’t. My life seems unreal to me, like I’m playing a character in a movie.
I read somewhere that’s how grief makes you feel. It’s almost like your soul has been transported out of your skin. It just kind of hovers around you, not quite connecting. I naively thought I could outrun it by coming up here, but apparently, it’s not possible to leave your feelings at home when you board a plane, especially when your husband—aka your problem—follows you. This new phase, of actually having to hand the kids over to Brett, is almost too brutal to bear.
Grabbing my purse, I get out of the cab of the truck and head into the diner. The restaurant is empty, so I find a booth and sit down.
Moira waves from the table she’s bussing. Once she drops a load of dishes into a bussing tub, she comes over to me and sits down. “Honey, it sounds like you had some excitement this morning. It’s all the boys could talk about when they came in for lunch.”
“I’d almost forgotten about the bear,” I tell her.My mind has been fully on my idiot husband showing up.
As if reading my mind, she says, “They also mentioned Brett.” She reaches across the table and takes my hand. Giving it a squeeze, she says, “I’m sorry. That can’t be easy.”
If anyone knows how hard life can be, it’s Moira. Raising three kids on her own while working crazy hours at her diner, I can’t even imagine. “I shouldn’t complain. It’s not like I’m the first woman who’s gone through this.”
“You know the problem is with us strong gals?” she asks while leaning back. Before I can answer, she tells me, “We’re constantly telling ourselves that we shouldn’t complain. We shouldn’t feel bad. We shouldn’t be human. It’s all a load of horse poop, if you ask me.” She slaps her hands against the tabletop hard. “We have got to cut ourselves some slack occasionally.”
“Call me crazy,” I tell her, “But I get the feeling you don’t practice what you preach.”
She laughs bitterly. “No time. But I promise you, when the twins go off to college, I’m going to close the diner for a month and let myself have the biggest pity party that’s ever been.”
“That seems like a long time to wait. What do you say we have that girls’ night we were talking about and feel sorry for ourselves tonight?”
Nodding her head, she strolls over to the door and turns over the “Closed” sign. “Let’s do it.” She walks over to the kitchen window and tells her cook, “I closed up a few minutes early, Lloyd. Go home to your wife and I’ll see you in the morning.”
She comes back to me. “Let’s go over to my place. That way I can put some supper on the table for the kids and give them at least a sense that they have a parent left.” She takes off her apron and throws it on the counter.
“I can’t even imagine how hard it is to raise the boys on your own. You’re doing a great job though. They’re good kids.”
“It’s sure not the childhood I wanted for them,” she says, opening the front door for me.
I wonder again what co-parenting with Brett will look like. It’s my guess he’ll make the time he spends with our kids one big party while I’m left with the job of actually raising them to be decent human beings. “Should I follow you?” I ask.
“I usually walk to work, so I’ll ride with you, if you don’t mind,” Moira says while heading to the truck. Once we’re in the cab, she adds, “So, did that brother of mine drive you crazy?”
I’m not sure how exactly she means that, so I kind of stumble over my response. “Um … no? I mean … I don’t know. No, I mean no.”Good lord.
“So, no?” She laughs loudly.
“He really went above and beyond for us and I’m very grateful. He’s wonderful with the kids.” What else can I say without tipping my hand that I kissed the guy?
“I keep trying to talk him into finding a wife, but pickings are pretty slim in Gamble.”
She points to the left in lieu of giving me actual directions. I pull out onto the road. “You sound like you speak from experience.”
“I’d rather be tied to a tree and slathered with honey than get married again.” I don’t quite know how to react to that. She adds, “I loved my husband and would have happily stayed with him forever. Having said that, I don’t have the intestinal fortitude to break in someone else.”
“I can’t imagine ever wanting to date again,” I tell her honestly. Although my face turns hot at the thought of the kiss Digger and I shared. It wasn’t a full-on make out session, but it was the sweetest encounter I’ve shared with anyone in years. I felt so desirable in his arms, which is a pretty novel experience for me. What with my own husband making it abundantly clear he desires everyone but me.
After three blocks, Moira tells me to make a left, which leads onto a picturesque street. Each house is surrounded by a large lot that in LA would cost a small fortune. Tall trees and shrubbery line the road, providing privacy and making it feel like we’re out in the woods.
“It’s the last house on the right,” Moira tells me. “Expect a mess.”
I nod. “I couldn’t care less about any of that.”
The house itself is an expansive log home built into a hill. Huge windows join at the peaked roof, and even though the place looks a bit worse for wear, it also has a homey feel to it.
The boys, along with a bouncy golden retriever, surround the pickup as soon as we pull up the drive. “Mom, we made dinner!” Wyatt calls out proudly.
