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My mother hated not having the last word. Hated having someone best her, shame her, especially publicly. It probably irked her even more since it was the day her son died. That wouldn’t matter to her. What mattered most was that Diane Henderson saved face.
But for the first time I’d ever seen, my mother retreated.
Yet I felt no joy in that.
I didn’t think I’d ever feel joy again.
Whenever something terribly tragic happens to someone, they often explain how ‘everything passes by in a blur.’ Now, I’m not going to call those people liars, but I couldn’t imagine the universe being that kind after being so indescribably cruel.
Because it certainly wasn’t for me.
For me, nothing went by in a blur. Not even for a second.
Everything happened in stark detail. Time slowed down to a crawl. I didn’t get a moment of respite. Not one. Even with Rowan’s constant presence. I had considered him to be some kind of force of magic, able to fix everything. Able to keep me safe from anything. To bring forth happiness.
But I quickly learned that just wasn’t realistic.
No one man, no matter how extraordinary, could fix everything. Could protect me from the realities of life.
But he was there. He was there as I turned my grief into purpose, organizing a funeral, deciding what to do with my brother’s apartment, his personal effects.
Fiona was there too. And Tina. They’d taken care of things at the bakery, I think. I vaguely remembered that as Rowan ushered me out, under his arm.
He’d put me in his truck and started driving me home. I’d stared at the road for a few seconds, lost in the yawning chasms of pain that came between every single second.
Then, somehow, I’d wrenched myself out. And I started making calls. Maggie was pressed into my legs when I was stationary and followed my every step around the house.
“Lilies,” I told the woman on the phone. “I need lilies.” I was pacing on my patio. It was cold outside. Or at least that’s what I thought. It was late fall, it was dark. There was wind coming from the ocean that always had a bite that time of night. I was wearing a thin tank and sweats, my hair still wet from the shower I’d taken earlier. Rowan had been in there too, washing my hair like I was unable to lift my arms or do anything for myself.
I should’ve been freezing.
But I couldn’t feel a thing.
“We don’t have a good stock of lilies right now,” the woman on the phone informed me. “What with the season changing. We can do roses, though.” Her voice was strained. Probably because I called her cell approaching ten at night.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “No, roses won’t do. I need lilies. They—”
The phone was snatched from my ear before I could say anything else.
“She’ll call you tomorrow,” Rowan barked at the florist before he hung up the phone.
“Hey!” I scowled at him. “You cannot just snatch the phone from people.”
Rowan did not respond to this. He was too busy sliding my phone in his pocket and lifting me over his shoulder.
“Hey!” I shouted again. “Put me down.” I banged on his back for emphasis. Which did nothing. I may as well have been hitting steel.
Rowan closed the door behind us as Maggie followed, still not speaking until he plonked me down on the barstool.
“You’re gonna sit there,” he cupped my face with his hands, his tone kind but firm. “And you’re gonna stay there.”
“I’m not a dog,” I protested.
“No,” he agreed. “You’re my woman. And you’ve lost something important. Part of yourself. You’re hurtin’ in a way that I can’t fix. Can’t even take the edge off.”
I bristled in my seat, hating that I was being forced to remain sedentary, that he was speaking about the thing I had been avoiding all day. He was making my chest burn and acknowledging that cavernous empty space inside of me unavoidable.
Rowan’s hands were firm on my face, his eyes intent. In that moment, I felt a surge of pure hatred toward him. For forcing me to sit there, with my feelings. With my pain.
“I can’t do anything to make you hurt less,” he said quieter, in a tortured tone that made that hate melt away. “But I can make sure you don’t freeze to death outside. He rubbed my arms as if to warm me. As if that were possible. “I can make you somethin’ to eat.” He stroked my face.
I opened my mouth to tell him that despite the emptiness inside of me, there was absolutely no way I could swallow a single thing.
“I’m not hungry,” was what I managed to rasp out. Mere minutes ago, I’d been on the phone talking about lilies, sounding perfectly normal, my voice clear and strong. Yet it was crumbling right now, full of cracks. Frail. I sounded weak and broken.
