“Interesting,” she said, jotting down another note.
“What? What the hell is interesting about that?”
Scrolling through a few different screens, she shook her head. “He sounds like a lovely man. But if the timing’s off, the timing’s off.”
“Well, the timing’s never gonna be right.” I ignored her disbelieving expression. “And he’s so wonderful, he should have the opportunity to be with someone else, someone he can make really happy and who’ll appreciate him the way he deserves.”
She didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she set down the stylus, folded her hands on her desk, and leaned forward, raising her brow at me.
“What?” I asked, frustrated.
“Don’t you deserve to be happy? Or do you think he wouldn’t be able to make you happy?”
The sound I made was a cross between a snort and a whimper. “He’d make me so happy I’d probably love him for the rest of my life, but I don’t think I could deal with the guilt of it.”
She smiled as though I’d said something right. “Can you repeat that last part?”
I rolled my eyes. “I said that I didn’t think I could handle the guilt of being happy.”
“And why would being happy make you feel guilty?”
Annoyed by this line of questioning, I spat out, “Because it means I have to accept that Robert’s never coming back.”
That seemed obvious enough, but suddenly it was as if all the oxygen had left my body.
I eyeballed the tablet on her desk, wanting to pitch it through one of the massive windows in this godforsaken office with itsfucking greenbelt views. “He’s never coming back,” I repeated, bringing my fists down onto my thighs.
The words felt like a punch to the chest, and my anger bled out into despair. I leaned forward, trying to breathe. She got up and rounded her desk. Sitting next to me, she put her arm around my shoulders. “Take it easy, Ren. Small breaths, then bigger ones.”
I wanted to shake her off me, but if I did, I’d either scream or go flying into the atmosphere. Instead, I bit the inside of my lip until it bled. We sat there in awful silence until my brain could wrap around this big, horrible truth.
After several moments of just fucking remembering how to breathe, tears tracked down my cheeks. “I know he’s gone,” I said, my voice weirdly calm. “I am aware that he’s dead and that he’s not coming back. But maybe my body hasn’t caught up, y’know?”
She nodded. “I do know, and I think you might be right.”
“It’s been over a year.” I shook my head, confused. “Robert said I had six months to grieve, and then I had to button it up.”
“Oh, did he?” she asked, giving me a little space.
“Yes. He put it in a letter and everything. I just…” I shook my head.
“You just what?”
I wiped away a tear, then met her gaze. “Why does it still hurt so badly? Why can’t I be happy?”
“Because, no matter what Robert said, grief doesn’t go away. It becomes integrated. Your job is to figure out how grief and happiness work together. One does not negate the other. Nowthat your husband has died, you get to spend the rest of your life figuring out how to feel both.”
She could’ve kicked me in the stomach and it’d’ve hurt less.
“Seems like the kind of thing you could have told me from the beginning.”
She shook her head. “No, sorry. I had to wait until you were ready.”
I took a deep, ragged breath, wishing I had Major here to remind me how it felt to be peaceful again.
“Talk about the shit end of the stick,” I finally managed.
“Yep.” After a beat, she added, “But it’s better than the alternative.”
