Ethel’s voice is muffled, but I feel her hand on my back as she says, “There, there, dear. Where did she go?”
I try to organize my thoughts and lay it out chronologically for her from the beginning, but my voice is cracking on every word, and my mind is a pile of mashed potatoes. I doubt what comes out of me is more than Natalie’s name and how much I love her.
Ethel’s hand remains steady on my back, rubbing comforting circles. She tells me that Natalie will come back, and “never say never!” but it’s not true. I’ve lost the only person I’ve ever truly loved, and the worst part is that if given the chance, I’d do it again.
Natalie is a beautiful, brilliant woman with a heart full of courage, not lacking in pain, and still, she trusts so openly. I used to see this as a weak quality, but in reality, it’s the opposite.
Her heart breaks, and she puts it back together herself. Then she offers the entire thing to the people she deems worthy, trusting they’ll handle it with care.
I can’t say I’ve ever been that brave. In fact, I’m a fucking coward. The only brave thing I’ve done is let her go. Give her the space to pursue her goals and let the right man find her. I stepped out of the way, allowing her to be found by the one whowill not only cherish her the way I did, but fill in all the gaps I never could.
My fingers are stained brown as I dig my hands into the soil. I end up on my side, and when a whiff of strawberry hits my nose, the last scraps of my resolve are torn away. Suddenly, I’m pulling myself closer to the strawberry patch, desperate to keep the scent in my lungs because it’s hers. It’s not the same, but it’s close. The closest I’ll ever get.
It’s better than lying in the shower, running my nose along the faded tiles in an effort to breathe in the leftover tendrils of her shampoo, which is what I’ve done every day since she left. Natalie took the bottle of shampoo with her, otherwise, I would’ve spent our days apart rubbing it into my skin, little by little, until it was the only scent my nose could register.
“No, Winston,” Ethel says from somewhere behind me. “You’ll see her again. You’ll smell her again. You’ll get to hold her again. Don’t worry.”
I didn’t realize I’d mentioned her scent aloud, but it makes sense. She’s everywhere, despite the lack of her presence. It’s too late. She’s in my cells, my bones, the follicles of my hair, and that’ll never change.
I’m not sure how it happens, but I end up in the middle of the strawberry patch, clawing at the velvety green leaves and the ripe berries themselves. But it’s not the same. Not nearly.
“Not the same. Not at all the same,” I hear myself mumble incoherently.
A wave of anger hits me, and I let it take me, closing my fists around the roots poking out of the ground around my head. A voice deep inside my head urges me to pull. I know I shouldn’t; I just can’t remember why. If I can’t have Natalie, why would I allow this fraudulent scent source to continue to antagonize me?
“Not the same!” I shout. “It’s not the same.”
My cheeks feel wet, and my eyes are stinging, but I don’t realize I’m crying until Ethel wraps her arms around me and pulls my upper body into her lap, wiping my cheeks. “It’s okay, doll. It hurts now, but you’ll be okay.”
She’s talking to me, but I’m not listening. I can’t stop pressing my nose against the berries until they pop. Juice explodes up my nose and across my cheeks, and I breathe it in. But it doesn’t soothe the hollow ache inside me. “Not the same. Not her.”
“No, it isn’t.”
I continue to rip the roots, squeeze the berries, rip and squeeze, rip and squeeze, until the entire strawberry patch is obliterated, and I look like I committed murder.
“Not her. Not the same.”
Ethel continues to rock me, petting my hair, generously ignoring the destruction I just made of her beloved garden.
Some odd days later, I hear the front door swing open, and I feel my heart shoot up into my throat. Could it beher?My sweetheart. My Natalie.
I’m working on a new sketch and forget to leave the sketchbook in the study before becoming mist and shooting down to the first floor. A disappointed sigh tumbles out of me at the sight of Lindsay.
“You,” I seethe. “What are you doing here?”
She shoves her oversized sunglasses atop her head, and her face scrunches like she’s just swallowed something vile. “Trust me, this is the last place I want to be.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Then why the fuck are you here?”
She pulls a stack of papers from the large bag on her shoulder and throws them to the floor. “Why am I here? Because I’m never going to sell this fucking nightmare of a house. That’s why!”
The only reason I bend down and gather the scattered pages is because I like the sound of that––her misery, and my house remaining mine. I sit down on the first step and attempt to put them in order.
“The zoning laws in this town are bullshit!” She shouts, throwing her hands up. Her heels clack loudly as she storms into the kitchen, returning a moment later with an open bottle of clear liquor, pouring the booze down her throat as she walks. Her face scrunches in disgust, and it takes her a minute to swallow and keep it all down before she resumes talking. “I can’t sell the house to anyone outside the town limits unless they have monster blood, or unless the mayor approves. How the hell am I supposed to list this place with requirements that rigid? I’ve never met the mayor. I don’t even live in this state.”
I’m inclined to pity her, to say, “there, there,” even. But I don’t, because the memory of her listing the ways I’m too much of a loser to be with Natalie is still fresh. Still, I can’t ignore the power she has over the place I call home.
“What happens now?” I ask.
