Charlotte doesn’t leave the room or sit back down, but I can feel her eyes boring into the top of my head. Mom has her face buried in her hands...words have finally managed to escape her, and Dad is sitting at the edge of his seat, waiting for the show to continue.What does Alexa know?How did she figure out so much from such a simple remark? AJ didn’t tell her to stop and come back, or ask her what she was talking about, which confirms the right Alexa had to accuse AJ.
Several minutes pass and all of us are still in the same position we were in when Alexa took off. Mom finally makes the first move and stands up from her chair, clearing as many dishes as she can grab within reach. “Harold, come help me in the kitchen,” she says to Dad.
Dad follows, picking up some more of the dishes along the way. Now, it’s just AJ, Charlotte, and me.
“I’m sorry,” AJ says.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Sorry” was allI needed to hear. That one measly word packs such a goddamn punch sometimes. Sorry for your loss. Sorry your life sucks. Sorry you live like you’re a zombie. Sorry I slept with the one woman who has seemed to understand you since the day Ellie died. Screw all the sorrys. Screw everyone.
I didn’t give him a chance to explain because as much as I’d love to hear every detail surrounding how he cheated on Alexa with Charlotte, at the same time I don’t want to hear a word about it. How did he even know her? The fucking Olsans’ job, her parents’ house—that must be how—Charlotte must have been there supervising one of the mornings I wasn’t there. Motherfucker. Why didn’t Charlotte tell me? Their stupid encounter at the bus stop that first day—it was a cover up. Why the fuck didn’t either of them tell me?
I’m through the front door before anyone has a chance to stop me. I know Olive is in good hands with Mom and Dad here so I’m leaving. I’m running away like I always do because, really, what other option do I have? I tried dabbling with facing reality this morning at breakfast, and that ended up blowing up in my face. If I keep running, maybe life will trip over its own feet and stop chasing me deeper into the gloom that closes in on me a little more each day I survive through this hell.
By the time I peel out of the driveway, Charlotte has one foot out the door and Dad has Olive in his hands, watching me from the window. Jesus. He couldn’t just distract her for a few minutes?
I have to put it all out of my mind. I need to breathe. I need to catch my breath away from all of them—away from everyone. With no direction in mind, I find myself at the one place I always instinctively end up when I run away.
I shove the gear into park and kick my door open as if I’m being suffocated. I am suffocating. With tunnel vision, I jog down the steps, but I slow my pace when I come closer to the tree. “Tell me I shouldn’t be thinking about other women, Ellie.” My heart is in my throat as I try to suck back in some of the wind that has pinned my lungs against my ribcage. “If you had a chance to tell me what you wanted to tell me before you died, would you have told me to move on or would you have wanted me to live out my life, waiting until it was my turn to join you up there? I need to know. I need to know that what I’m doing isn’t wrong, Ell. I need your blessing on what I do with the rest of my life.”
“You know that’s a tree you’re speaking to, right?” A soft voice pulls me from the darkness of my outspoken thoughts. I turn to face her, failing to recognize the woman at first glance. After a moment, though, I remember her—the woman plucking every last jasmine out of the pre-frozen soil.
“Uh,” I fall short of finding more words to fill the awkwardness between us. I was, in fact, speaking to a tree, very personal words not meant for anyone but Ellie to hear. I look past her and over to the pond, confirming that there is no trace of a flower left to be picked. “There aren’t any flowers here anymore.” What else is there to say to a complete stranger I shared less than a minute worth of conversation with?
She looks over her shoulder to where I was looking. “Nope, there are no more flowers,” she confirms.
“Yeah,” this is becoming more uncomfortable by the second. “Well, I was just venting away over here. Family drama, you know?”
She smiles gently, unveiling a perfect, glowing white smile. Every one of her teeth are perfectly even, and the tip of her nose is aligned with the split of her two front teeth. Her eyes, though, while incredibly symmetrical they are larger than her other features—sort of like an anime character—jade green disks floating in a sea of snowy white. Brushing away a strand of her wavy hair, she breaks her gaze from mine. “I know a lot about family drama. Trust me.”
“Who doesn’t, I guess.” I run my fingers down the side of my face, trying to inhale as much as possible in hopes of stretching out the aching muscles in my chest.
“Tell me about her,” she says, pointing to the root of the tree. “Your wife.”
I forgot I had spewed off this piece of information to her the last time we met. I must have gotten a lot off my tongue in a matter of sixty-seconds. Maybe the conversation was longer than that.
I take a few steps to the side, over to the bench along the stone-covered wall. Sitting down, I wonder if she’ll follow. She hasn’t moved from her spot, but she’s looking between the tree and me as if she’s contemplating a decision. “I don’t bite.”
With hesitation she makes her way over, taking up the spot beside me. “I’m Ari,” she says. “Ariella.”
“Hunter,” I respond, offering her my hand as a gesture, making this awkward meeting more official.
“So?” she urges me on, leaning forward, pressing the tips of her elbows into her knees.
“We were friends since five years old, never left each other’s side. We were inseparable until the day she gave birth to our little girl. That pretty much sums up the story.” My explanation of Ellie’s death gets shorter and shorter each time I repeat it. They’re like preprogrammed words that just roll off my tongue. It makes it easier to have an automatic response, saving me from digging into my rotting brain to retrieve bits and pieces of the why, what, when, and where of Ellie.
Ari doesn’t blink or react when she takes in my words. Her focus remains solid on the small patch of grass in front of us.
“Do you know that poem by Robert Frost? ‘The Road Not Taken’?” she asks, finally looking over at me. The look in her eyes makes my gut hurt, but not in a bad way. It hurts in a way that tells me my nerves are still alive, functioning at a normal capacity when I see an attractive woman; although she isn’t the definition of attractive, she’s more ethereal, dream-like. Her skin is smooth and flawless and I imagine it would feel like satin or silk if I touched it. I’m staring at her now and I should look away. I am sitting in front of my wife’s grave, for God’s sake. How much more disrespectful could I be?
With that last thought, I break our eye contact, moving my focus to the patch of grass she was hogging with her stare just seconds earlier. “Yeah, I know that poem,” I say, my voice coming out more stern and short than I intended.
“Well, he says that there are two paths to choose from and he took the one less traveled by. It really is a beautiful thought...” she trails off.
“Yup, it is. It’s a really great poem,” that I cannot remember the words to. Eighth grade English class was quite a while ago and I suddenly remember asking myself what I would ever need poetry for in life. My question has been answered—it’s so I don’t look like a complete loser when a woman asks me about a poem.
“It’s total bull,” she says, shocking the hell out of me. My focus swings back to her face, forgetting what Ellie may or may not be thinking of me right now.
