“And I still think that, but the more we hung out, the less overwhelming being around her was.”
“Because you were mauling her in private?”
She grinned lasciviously. “Oh, I mauled her privates.”
I fake gagged. “Too far, Megan.”
She rolled her eyes at me. “Think of it like music. You know how you do that annoying thing where when you hear a new song you really like, you play it on endless repeat for a week straight?”
“Yes,” I said, ignoring the jibe. Our rooms were right next to each other’s growing up. I could see now how that habit would be annoying.
“Why do you do that?” she asked.
“Because of what the music does to me. How the sounds sweep me off my feet and fill my head with images. Music to me is transportive. It makes me feel in color, if that makes any sense.”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t, but that’s not the point. What happens if you listen to that song three months later? Do you still feel the same way you did that first week?”
I had to think about it for a minute. “No. Or if I do, it’s to a much lesser extent.”
“Maybe Stan is like music. The more you hang out with him, the less his physical beauty will overwhelm you. You’ll get used to it, like I did with Stacey. And in the interim, he might manifest a character flaw or two to distract you away from his seeming perfection.”
“That might actually work.”
She grinned. “Good.”
“But what if it doesn’t?”
Her expression fell. “Uh…call me and we can try to figure something else out?”
“Deal,” I told her.
Chapter 10: Ben
It was two days after Christmas. I couldn’t get out of bed.
A crushing pressure kept me there, made up of a debilitating mixture of grief, anxiety, survivor’s remorse, and depression. It felt like a physical being with a corporeal form. Some huge, hulking monster that sat on my chest, its paws on my shoulders, pressing me down. All of my hours in the gym were worthless to me now. As hard as I struggled, I didn’t have the strength to push it off.
I hadn’t suffered a depressive bout like this in months. The setback was infuriating, which only compounded my other negative emotions. I’d been doing so much better lately. This step backward really illustrated that to me now. But then Christmas happened.
The day itself was fine. Between my anticipation to hang out with Ella, cooking, and talking to family and friends, I’d been plugged in, connected. Distracted.
Then Ella left the next morning, and the house suddenly seemed too big. Too quiet. Without the diversion of her and the dogs, my thoughts wandered to Zach. To the last holiday we spent together with the whole family in Hawaii. To my nephew, Micah, racing around my parents’ living room, holding Buzz Lightyear high over his head as he made “zooooom” noises. He asked me to read him a bedtimestory that night. Not his parents. Not his grandparents.Me.I’d felt like the most special person in the whole world.
Watching his eyes flutter shut while I read to him made me want to settle down and have a couple of kids of my own. I walked downstairs afterward to find the rest of the family in the dining room, seated around my parents’ large rectangular table, howling with laughter. Zach’s wife, Molly, a.k.a. Two Can Sam, a.k.a. Lightest of the Lightweights, a.k.a. Gigglefits McGee, sat at the head of it, her blonde curls frazzled, her brown eyes glazed over.
She’d gotten into the champagne while I was upstairs, and the bubbles went straight to her head. Everything was suddenly rendered hilarious by her buzz. I still had video of “The Incident” as she called it afterward. I watched it earlier, rewinding several times to the part where my dad leaned toward her and muttered, “Ham sandwich.” Molly slid to the floor snort-laughing, the rest of us joining along because it was just so ridiculous and her laughter was just that infectious. Chewbacca mask lady had nothing on Molly when she really got going.
I watched the video right to the end, when Zach scooped his tipsy wife up off of the ground and carried her out of the room, followed by a chorus of hoots and catcalls.
When the video was over, I curled into the fetal position in the middle of my bed and sobbed until my tears ran out.
Six months after I shot that video, they were dead.
My eyes were scratchy now, my face puffy, throat sore. I’d cried so much that I was dehydrated. Thanks to the litany of other physical symptoms that manifested whenever a bout of depression hit me this hard, I felt like I had the flu. My head throbbed. I didn’t trust my stomach enough to put anything other than bread in it. The sheets beneath me were soaked with sweat.
At least I didn’t have the shortness of breath and racing pulse that proceeded a full-blown panic attack. Shut up all alone in the house like this, with no one to help me through it, I’d probably end up hyperventilating myself into unconsciousness.
My phone went off, emitting a shrill tone that reminded me it was time to take my medication. I dug through the rumpled covers around me until I found the phone, then hit ‘end’ on the alarm. It took a monumental effort to roll over, pop the caps off of several prescription bottles stacked on the nightstand, and swallow the pills with the help of a large swig of water.
