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Sheleft me.
Idon’t understand.
Whatthe fuck happened?Whatdid he tell her?Mywhole life, it’s been just her and me.Andnow she’s gone.Idon’t even know, asIhuddle in the corner of the front porch, that whenIfinally manage to call her number, it will be disconnected.ThatI’llsleep on this porch for five days, too wretched to even care aboutHayden, beforeIwake up to some guy in a suit poking me with a stick.Arealtor, here to show the house to new buyers.
Losscomes fast and breaks hard, like a tidal wave.Thegrief lasts forever, an endless undertow choked with the wreckage of everything it destroyed, leaving the world behind it unrecognizable.Itnever stops pulling, because it knows that part of you just wants to drown.
Thelittle, dark-haired girl stares up at me from the package of biscuits cradled in my palm.Iused to see her in our kitchen cupboard every single morning whenIgot out the tea.Itold myself this morning thatIwouldn’t cry today, no matter what, but my throat hurts.
“Ooh, cookies.”Scoutthe sugar-whore bumps my side as he cranes his neck to see over my shoulder. “Parle-G?Arethey good?”
“They’renot sweet likeOreos.Youdip them in tea.”Clearingmy throat,Ilook him up and down.There’sa reason he’s standing next to me out of the entire grocery store. “Whatdo you want?”
Hefixes theBroncoscap over his messy silver hair. “Romeasked if we could get a tin of kitten formula forRambo.”
“Oh.”Myeyes trail back to the girl on the packaging.ForMom’sbirthday the year before she metHayden,Ispent all day trying to make her these crazyFrenchcookiesIsaw onBakeOff.Theyturned out absolute shit, andIfelt like such a dick.Shejust laughed and told me to put on my sandals.Wewalked all the way to the grocery store inFebruaryat night to get a pack ofParle-Gand some cinnamon and cardamom to make our own chai.
Iturn the biscuits over in my hands one more time, then push them back onto the shelf. “Yeah, okay.Grabthe formula.”
“Areyou alright?”
Thewords startle me out of the fog in my head. “Huh?”
“Formulacosts money.Youhate spending money.Doyou have a fever?”
Iroll my eyes and turn toward the front door.I’mgood at hiding pain.Momwas the only person who could always tell whenIwasn’t okay. “Iwould pay any amount of money to be home taking a nap right now, so hurry up.”
Insteadof waiting forScoutto make his purchases,Ihead out to theCivicparked crookedly under a huge oak.Thesun is harsher inColorado, with less atmosphere to block it, soIcan already feel it trying to burn my bare arms.Theoak’s leaves flutter in the breeze, making a gentle sighing sound asRomanrolls down the passenger window.
Iprop my hip against it and peer in at the cardboard box cradled in his lap. “How’sRambo?”
Hescratches at the cat’s black and white head with a fingernail, and it arches into his touch. “Good.He’shungry all the time.”
“ItoldScoutto grab the formula.Ifwe’re gonna keep collecting ravenous pets though, someone in this house needs to get a better job.”
Romanshakes his hair back out of his face and looks up at me with a surprised, grateful smile that makes enduringScout’ssnark worth it. “I’llget a goat next; it can mow the yard at least.”
Imanage a weak chuckle asIshake my head and squint out at the eastern horizon.It’sa dark, dangerous purple, but the storm won’t reach us for hours. “Hey.Wantto watch me do something stupid?”
“Sure.”Herests an elbow on the open window and cocks his head at me asIpull out my phone and search for a number.
“Herewe go.Ineed you to be my witness later, toBeck.”Bendingover and propping both elbows next to his,Iput the phone on speaker and balance it on the door.
“ThisisRichardfromCopperCanyon, how canIhelp you?”
Shit.Ispent all morning banking on getting an answering machine.Roman’seyebrows go up as he rests his chin on his arm and listens to me flub epically.
“Oh, uh,I’msorry.Imean, hi.Myname isDallasSantra.”Ihesitate way too long, grabbing for what to say next.
“HowcanIhelp you,DallasSantra?”There’sa twist of dry humor in the older man’s voice.Atleast he’s not an asshole.
“I’mcalling about the cashier position you have posted in your front window.Ilove your store, andIwas wondering ifIcould possibly have an interview...”Iclose my eyes, picturingBeckin the dark working so hard on that website. “Idon’t have specific fashion experience, butI’verun registers and stock rooms before andIhave some pictures of my own outfits.”Everyword out of my mouth makes me cringe, butRomannudges me and offers a thumbs up.
There’sa pause.RightbeforeIcan stammer an apology,Richardspeaks up. “Sure, why not?Canyou stop by at the end of this week?’
“Really?”Iblurt, then want to slap myself. “Imean, yes sir,Ican do that.Thankyou so much.”
Richardhangs up after settling on a time, butIjust stare blankly at the phone.Onanother day,I’dprobably be celebrating.Rightnow,Ijust feel incredibly overwhelmed.
