“I’m sorry. Maybe you’re right.”
“I know I am. You lost way too many years, first obsessing, then mourning Jared. Now you need to get past losing him. Let’s do something about that. How about we find you a group for people who are grieving the loss of someone they loved?”
I wondered if Jared’s husband had done that and if it had helped. Something had worked. He’d managed to find someone new to love. Why couldn’t I?
“Well, I can’t afford a therapist, since my insurance doesn’t cover it, but a group I can handle. Like once a week. I don’t know if I could talk to strangers about my personal life, but maybe listening to others could help me.”
“Yes, definitely.” At this point Frisco would likely agree to anything if it meant me taking a positive step to move my life forward. “Talking to people you don’t know and who don’t know you could be better than talking to your friends who’ve lived with it for years. They might have a fresh perspective.”
I couldn’t help the snort of laughter that escaped me. “As opposed to you, who just keeps saying you wish you could’ve punched the bastard in his pretty face.”
“I’ll do anything to get you back, Press. I can’t stand seeing you waste any more years to the past. Life is too precious.”
Frisco often got maudlin when he’d had a few too many, but it also cued me in to his psyche. My hard-as-nails friend had a soft core under his beautiful yet brittle surface. One day someone would find it and touch him where no one else had ever managed to reach.
An ad caught my eye as I scrolled. “Huh. Lost in New York.”
“What?” I heard the rattle of ice cubes in a glass.
“It’s the name of a support group. It says, ‘For people who have suffered the traumatic loss of a family member or loved one. We provide a weekly support group where you can talk and share your feelings about your grief. A counselor is on hand to moderate the group, and we encourage people to talk and tell their stories.’”
“That sounds good, don’t you think?”
Frisco would be happy as long as it wasn’t run by a serial killer.
“Maybe. I don’t know.” I glanced over at the picture of Jared and me I still kept on the nightstand by my bed. He was gazing into the camera while I was staring at him. Had I been a convenience to Jared because I gave in so easily? Someone to stroke his fragile ego? “I’ll call you tomorrow.” I hung up the phone and crawled across my bed to pick up the framed picture.
“Did you ever love me?” I whispered to the picture. “Or was I a fool even then to believe everything you told me?” I stroked the glass. “I was too young and dumb to see what was right in front of me. Frisco is right. I let my heart control my head, and I never should’ve listened once I knew you were married. No matter how pathetic you made your life out to be, I was the bigger fool to let you stay. No more married men for me. I need to be someone’s number one for once.”
Without giving myself a chance to think too hard and back out, I clicked on the registration for the Lost in New York group. They met every Thursday evening from six to seven in the Presbyterian church on 84th and Amsterdam. I closed my antiques store at five, so I could easily be there in time.
A nervous thrill of anticipation ran through me, as if I sensed something momentous was about to happen, but I shook it off and laughed at myself. Undressed and lying in bed, watching something on Netflix, I decided if I did go to the support group, I wouldn’t tell anyone the truth about my relationship with Jared. I’d create the fantasy of the death of a childhood friend and my inability to come to terms with the tragedy of losing him.
No one needed to know what a fool I’d been all these years.
* * *
The week passed with little event. A steady flow of customers kept me busy with requests for specialty items. On Thursday, I prepared a section of the store for the viewing of an estate sale for an elderly woman who’d passed away six months earlier. She’d been a steady and valued customer, and I’d enjoyed the woman’s company during her frequent visits to the store. Her bright eyes and cheerful outlook never faded, even as age robbed her of mobility. Heloise had been on Frisco’s side in the Jared debacle, but she’d delivered her lectures with compassion instead of brutal honesty. Both approaches, I now saw, were helpful to me in their own ways.
At five o’clock, I straightened out the nineteenth-century sterling silver tea set and rearranged the Duncan Phyfe chairs flanking the Chippendale table. Heloise’s daughter and I worked together to make sure her mother’s prized antiques would go to homes where they’d be appreciated and loved. Walking through her apartment after her death and seeing the treasures she’d accumulated over the years boggled my mind, both in the size and scope of her collection and, I couldn’t lie, in the commission I could make from the sales. The original Picasso painting alone would enable me to buy the condo I’d been eyeing on Riverside Drive. I shut the lights, set the alarm, and pulled down the gates to lock up the store for the night.
It was a quick trip to the church for the support group, and my steps slowed and grew heavier as I approached. I could go home, and no one would be the wiser. After all, who would know?
My phone buzzed.
Are you there yet? I didn’t see you go inside.
Are you spying on me?
Let’s say I’m making sure you do the right thing.Frisco added a winky-face emoji.Shit.Frisco using emojis was like snow in July. Impossible to imagine.
I’m a block away.
Don’t rush on my account. My assistant gets more eager if I make him wait. More fun for me.
You’re insane.
I’ve been called worse.
