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I didn’t worry about the letter.
I didn’t think about Charlotte.
I pored over old high school film, listened to my dad’s voice barking commands from where he stood on the sidelines, camera in hand. Days of that. And I came to the conclusion that I probably would’ve hated football if it hadn’t been for Chris.
I moved on to my college games. Every year, I got better.
The longer I watched, each glimpse of Chris hurt less and less.
Tansy shook her head every time she passed me in front of the computer screen, but she said nothing.
I spent an entire week poring over everything I could find from the first twenty years of my life, trying to find some missing puzzle piece that I’d never been able to identify.
I didn’t worry about the letter.
I didn’t think about Charlotte.
I got very, very good at lying to myself about both of those things ... because it took almost a week before I started dreaming about her.
Chapter Thirty-Two
CHARLOTTE
Heartache was very good for work, as it turned out.
Tile didn’t shut down on you.
Furniture didn’t walk away.
Paint colors didn’t lie about their complete inability to process their feelings.
For the first week, I kept my blinders on, ate a lot of freshly baked bread (thanks to Richard), and reminded myself that I’d lived without Burke before.
I could do it again.
I napped a lot because heartache was also a bit tiring.
I found myself sitting out on the bay in the mornings, drinking my coffee and staring at a pull-up bar with a bit more violence than was probably necessary.
I didn’t call him. I didn’t text.
Daphne and Richard watched me carefully, like they were bracing for the moment something would crack and I’d melt into a puddle of tears.
I reminded myself that I’d lived without Burke before, and I could do it again.
I sat at the dining-room table and laid out three really good job offers, then reviewed every single one carefully. I met with each prospective client on the phone.
It took me less than a day to decide which one felt the most right. The sole consideration was the flicker of joy I’d felt down under my ribs when they showed me the house.
It wasn’t about money. Or time. Or distance.
I picked the one that made me happiest. It was the only option coming off this one, where I was leaving so much of my heart behind.
When William came and told me he’d turn over the keys in another week, I reminded myself that I’d lived without Burke before.
I could do it again.
For the first time since he’d left, I cried myself to sleep on the couch underneath the black-and-white quilt he’d left behind.
