“We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?” I ask, my eyes casting downward, but I can’t see much of her aside from the top of her head and the tip of her nose.
It takes Addison a moment to answer, and when she does, her voice is full of something I can’t name. “Quite a pair, Brady. Quite a pair.”
10
Addison
I have a vulnerability hangover.
Is this how Brady felt when he shared his heartbreak with me?
I’ve been rolling around in my bed since I woke up at five, trying to figure out if I said too much. Which is funny, really, because I didn’t say as much as I could have.
I didn’t tell him about the nightmares that plagued me for months, or the accusatory looks on Shannon’s face. She, it appeared, didn’t share my uncertainty about where to place blame.
There’s so much more I could’ve said, but last night I’d had enough. I’d peeled back the Band-Aid and revealed my wound, exposing the injured flesh to the world for just as long as I could take. Brady would’ve listened until I’d ran out of breath, but I couldn’t keep going. It allhurts.
I know he’d be the right person to tell everything to. He’s sweet and kind, caring and compassionate. He’s a genuinely good person. Now that I’ve seen past the mishap of our first meeting, I can see it as clearly as if these qualities were tattooed on his forehead.
Last night he’d referred to us as a ‘pair’, and I found that I liked it. For so long I’ve felt alone, since almost the exact moment Warren’s family ran into the hospital waiting room. I’d grown close to his mom and sister before the accident, I’d thought they loved me, and thenWham!A door slammed shut in my face. Gone were the excited conversations about wedding planning and sly comments about when Warren and I would give them a baby to love on. We went from warm to icy in an instant.
The problem stretched on and on, every day that Warren didn’t wake up. I’d had no one to lean on, and I needed them, but they turned inward, leaning on each other and leaving me out in the cold.
And then came the final blow: the bakery. Warren’s parents had rented the space right before we got engaged, and I was paying them what I could for rent until the bakery turned a profit, while they paid the full rent to the mortgage company.
A few months into Warren’s coma, the bakery began making money, and I could afford to pay them full rentandmake a decent living for myself.
Yesterday Charlie mentioned that contest, but I’m not so sure about it. Is that really what I want? To run another bakery? I loved it when I did it in Chicago. Constantly surrounded by mouth-watering smells, and watching customers become regulars, made me happy. While Warren laid in his bed, first in the hospital and then in the long-term care facility, going to the bakery was a time when I could switch off the mess my life had turned into. I’d stand in the kitchen in the back, rolling and kneading dough, braiding challah, shaping scones and boiling bagels. I let my brain immerse itself in work, and the pain fell away.
Maybe I could have that again, here in Lonesome. I wasn’t planning on making this my home, but then again, I wasn’t planning much of anything, one way or the other. And it’s not like I have a good reason to return to Chicago. What was once there for me is gone now.
I wasn’t planning on making a friend like Brady, either. That’s what we are, right? Friends? It certainly feels like it. Especially after yesterday at the restaurant, and last night at the beach.
I push aside my curtains and peek out the window, telling myself I’m not looking for a certain tall, brown-haired man, but deep inside I know I am. It’s not like I want to make him my boyfriend or anything, it’s just that it’s nice to be around a man again. Brady’s presence is reassuring, like Warren’s was. Like somehow, just by being around them, I know everything is going to be all right.
I feel a pang thinking of Warren. The pain of losing him hasn’t faded. It’s always there, lurking in the background, like the creeks that run beyond the trees. You don’t see them, but of course they’re there.
I don’t see Brady outside. He’s either still at his cabin, or he’s already downstairs. I get out of bed and dress, then head to the bathroom across the hall. It takes me longer than usual to brush my hair and teeth. I think it’s nerves. Blame it on that vulnerability hangover.
I make my way downstairs, and I hear him before I see him. His laughter climbs the stairs as I descend, meeting me halfway and swirling around me, caressing my bare legs.
A smile pulls at my lips as the first floor comes into view. I scan the room for Brady, spotting him at the breakfast table. He sits with his back to me, engaged in conversation with an old couple who checked in a couple days ago.
He can’t see me, so I take the chance to study him on my walk into the kitchen. He has strong, wide shoulders, the chair he sits on dwarfed by him. His hair is messy this morning, not total bedhead but like maybe he used his fingers as a comb before heading up here.
I pour my coffee and lean against the counter, slouching slightly to keep an eye on him. He’s talking animatedly with the Andersons, and I wonder what it is they’re discussing. Mr. Anderson laughs, and Mrs. Anderson looks at Brady with rapt attention. She’s probably thinking about who she knows who needs a man like Brady in her life.
The thought makes me uneasy. I turn my back on the chatting threesome and gaze out the window over the kitchen sink. Brady’s heart is still broken from his friend back home, but one day he’ll move on.
Will I ever do the same? Warren’s face fills my mind as I wrap my hands around my mug, the warmth sinking into my skin. He had a sly smile, one that snuck up on me. His sense of humor was dry, and it took me some time to get used to it. Once I did, it became another piece of him I fell in love with.
It’s not easy to remember him this way. A year of silence, of not moving, ofnothing, slowly became all I could picture when I saw him. He’s not dead, but he’s not alive either. He’s in a waiting place, and so are the rest of us who love him.
Until recently, anyhow.
I wasn’t a quitter, no matter what Warren’s family called me. And they had called me plenty of terrible names and accused me of horrible things. I let them throw their shade, because I was the only person available for them to take their grief out on. Did it make it okay? Hell no. But shooting back at them wasn’t going to help the situation.
I blink, tears escaping my eyes. A year ago I was planning my wedding. I was in love. I was operating a bakery that bore my name on its sign. And now here I am. Hiding in the kitchen at Sweet Escape, teardrops falling into my coffee.
