I still snuggle into the imprint on his side of the bed and wake up dreaming that he’s holding me.
This is his t-shirt.
It doesn’t smell like him anymore.
My mascara is running.
It never smudges, much less runs, certainly not from tears and certainly not in public.
Am I alright?
Nope.
He’s gone.
And two years later, there are days where all it takes is an Anise Swallowtail in the park to make me feel like nothing’s going to be alright in my world again.
But you can’t tell that to a stranger at the corner of Pines and Second.
“I’m just fine.” I slip into a reassuring smile, the one I’ve perfected over the past two years. Enough teeth to show I’m sincere, not enough to look entirely unhinged.
The woman narrows her eyes, nods twice, and starts pushing the stroller and her smiling toddler back down the sidewalk, casting a few curious glances back over her shoulder.
My feet refuse to move for a few more moments before the muscle memory takes over, and my scuffed tennis shoes are once again smacking the pavement. It’s the same route we ran together each morning before breakfast. I keep thinking running it without him will get easier.
It doesn’t.
As I turn down our idyllic suburban street, I remind myself to look up and notice the green buds pushing out of the mighty oak trees. A few neighbors are mowing their grass. Their lives are carrying on, and I remind myself women who are processing their grief in healthy ways don’t want to spit in their home owner association president’s perfect yard because her life is fine and mine isn’t.
Just before I reach the driveway, the low hum of the mail truck rounds the corner. Noah slows down as he pulls up beside me, already hanging out the doorless cab.
“B!” He tips his mail hat like we’re in a Western movie. “Outrunning before 9 AM? I feel like this requires a victory celebration. Coconut ice cream still your sweet treat of choice?”
I move the back of my hand over the mascara circles I’m sure I have under my eyes, probably making it worse. Luckily, Noah’s seen me uglier. And drunker. And crying into a pizza box at 2 AM back in college. He was my friend first, Owen’s roommate second, and still the only one allowed to call me B.
“Don’t make it weird.” I probably look like a deranged raccoon slinking back after a romp in the dumpster. “I’m just reminding my legs they still work.”
He tilts his head to the side, the same easy grin that used to talk me off a hundred ledges, back when we were all too young to know better starts to falter. Then his blue eyes are crinkling at the corners as he leans farther out of the cab, and I hate that they still have that don’t BS me effect they’ve had since college.
“Hey, you alright?”
I shrug, then shake my head because lying to Noah never works. “There was a butterfly in the park.”
His mouth hardens, and I see his throat bob in a forced swallow. “Yeah? What kind?”
“Anise Swallowtail. He loved those.”
“He was obsessed with them. Did you know the caterpillars mimic bird droppings? My brain is full of Owen butterfly facts that will only be useful in a bizarre trivia category.”
I chuckle, but it comes out high and strained. “Yep. Most people get into birdwatching, not Owen. He was out there stalking butterflies like a six-year-old with a net.”
Noah huffs a laugh, but his is also laced with sadness. “He dragged me along more than once. I think he thought I’d appreciate the wingspan facts. But I clearly only remembered the bird shit ones.” He pauses, gaze flicking over me. “It’s a good sign though, B. Means they’re coming back this season. He’d like that.”
My throat tightens. “He’d want me to like it, too.”
He shifts in the seat. “You still have his butterfly book?”
I nod.
