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My throat dries despite the entire cup of water I just drank. “I should cancel. They’re not ready.”
Veronica shakes her head, sitting beside me. Her hand clamps over my forearm, mean to be comforting, but I don’t think there’s anything that can ease the turmoil inside of me.
“It’s time you all move on. It’s been five years,” she says.
A choked noise escapes me. “Move on? How are my children supposed to move on, Vee? Their father was murdered in our home.”
I glance at the spot I’d just been standing in when the anxiety attack happened. The same place I held my husband as he bled out. I couldn’t move, not when our children had just lost their father. It would’ve ruined them more than they already were. So, I stayed, replaced the stained hardwood with cold white tile.
Still, this home haunts me. It holds the good and the bad. His face fills each corner. His love, his very essence. I can never leave. There’s too much of him.
My heart hammers in my chest again. I quickly shake my head, forcing away the ill thoughts. There’s no time for panic attacks or PTSD moments. I’m sick of this. Dad and Veronica are right. Time to move on.
“Let’s talk about something else,” I say, clearing my throat. “When are we scheduled to check out flower arrangements?”
Veronica nods. She reaches for her purse in the center of the table, then pulls out her iPad. “Thursday.”
I sigh in relief, my head bobbing enthusiastically. We spend the next half hour running through all the details, prioritizing the items on the to do list, and delegating tasks. My stomach grumbles at the same time Veronica’s does.
“We should break for lunch,” I say, standing from the table. The luxury of working from home is being able to cook meals without having to order out. I mean, don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of days that me and Vee grab takeout, but mostly we break and cook something fresh.
“I can send out these emails this evening,” she says, standing with me.
She heads for the fridge, rummaging to find something to make.
“I’ll grab some veggies for a salad,” I say when I notice she’s taken out the glass of fresh honey vinaigrette I made for the week. One upside to being my boss is the free time I have to make just about all of our food from scratch.
Baking and cooking fresh is one way I cope with grief. I may have woken up at three this morning to make a French baguette and buttercream-frosted cupcakes.
I head through the sliding door in the corner of the kitchen that leads to the brick-laid patio. The backyard had been a selling point of the massive home. Ian’s family came from money, and though the expensive price tag that came with a four-bedroom home in a good area of the suburbs with private school was daunting—especially since I was only twenty when we bought this place—I’d made the house our home. Starting with the garden. The patio has iron lounge chairs and a dining table with intricate rose patterns welded into the frame of the tabletop. Large potted plants with pops of colors and some herbs that double for consumption litter the corners of the brick seating area.
Birds chirp, because yeah, I made sure we had some trees and bird feed to make this place serene. Every time I step outside to let out Bruce, the Doberman I bought after the home invasion, my heartbeat returns to normal as I take in the peaceful space. My dose of medicine to keep the demons at bay. And it works most of the time.
I round the corner, heading for the fenced-in garden, and grab one of the wooden baskets I keep hanging on the railing. It doesn’t take long to grab some lettuce, tomatoes, onions, carrots. Then, I head inside, where Veronica is already dicing up a chicken breast to add into our salad. The bread I made this morning is already in slices and laid out on a baking pan to toast.
This is oddly domestic. Without having to speak, we read each other’s mind. She prepped the bread, decided we needed protein for the salad, and helped get started. A pang settles in my chest, and I long to have this back. To be so in sync with a partner that they just know what you need and do it.
Ian is gone. I’ve come to terms with that. But this? This is the first time I’ve felt like maybe I’m ready to move on, to learn how to cohabitate with someone else.
Fear settles where the ache in my heart is. I never want to give myself to anyone, just to have to lose them again. And I also don’t know if I could live with myself for moving on. The guilt of being with someone else still fucks with my head. It still feels a lot like cheating.
Chapter Eleven
“Tooskinny,”Veronicasaysfrom the couch. She’s sprawled out with a fleece blanket wrapped around her, despite the summer humidity. “Too old . . . too hairy . . . toobald.”
I chuckle from my spot curled up on the recliner, face buried in a book. Dad left with the kids this morning, and I stressed right until he sent me the much anticipated “We’re home, safe and sound” text. It eased some of the worry enough that I could sit and attempt to read a book. I use the term loosely, since Veronica’s commentary on the dating profiles she’s swiping on is loud enough to be mistaken for speaking into a megaphone at a high school football game.
The day’s been pretty low key, other than that. We finished work early and I came home, showered and got into pajamas before we ate dinner.
“What exactly are you looking for in an online dating companion?” I turn the page in my book, not bothering a glance in her direction.
“Young, but not younger than me. Hot, but like, not celebrity hot. Funny, muscled, good in bed.”
“How will you know if they’re good in bed?” I ask.
“Well, the ones who aren’t typically say something extremely crude and pretend like they can locate the clitoris without a treasure map.”
I snort. “Gross. I’m glad I never had to do the online thing.”
