Mostly the latter, head down.
Max had every right to send a letter Dan. They were friends way back when, before I asked them to try dating, before something went wrong and Dan demanded I decide between them, then cut himself off from both of us when I refused.
How long had they corresponded? How often?
And, more importantly, why didn’t Max tell me? If he kept this one secret, what else might he have kept from me?
Pressing my head against my knees, I push the matter away again, for another day when I haven’t just said goodbyeagain.
If I cry, there’s no one to see or hear, though I don’t—not much, anyway. I wept up a storm in the first days after Max’s diagnosis, but ever since, the flood has reduced to little more than an occasional trickle.
The steam clears from the mirror too fast.
A fist bangs on the door. “Dinner’s ready.”
“I’m not hungry.” It’s only half a lie. My belly’s empty, but not growling.
“You need to eat,” Corin yells back.
“I ate at the hotel.”
“One strawberry,” he laughs. “That’s not enough to keep a bird alive, much less a human.”
I rise—because the water is cold, not due to Corin’s nagging—and grab a big bath sheet that wraps all the way around me as I yell, “How do you know? You weren’t even there!”
“Every one of my daughters reported it.”
I’ll have to give the traitors a tongue lashing for that when they next come home from school, admittedly with tongue decidedly in cheek, since they regularly tattle on him to me and Max. Now just me.
“I’ll be down in ten minutes.”
I hear him march down the corridor to his room, thudding all the way.
Back in my room, I ignore the mess on the bed. Pull on a nightgown of rose-colored cotton with pretty lace insets, from Max, of course—it will be both a pain and treat to finally buy all my own lingerie and nightwear—and a thick terrycloth robe over it. Feet stuffed into bunny slippers, a gag gift from Caity last birthday that lasted longer than she expected, I shuffle downstairs.
A simple dinner that I had no say in, unasked for, sits on the counter between the bright yellow kitchen and the dining room, with its white-washed walls and long, dark wood table. Grape leaves stuffed with rice, pita chips, and sliced carrots and peppers with hummus, plus small squares of baklava to the side for dessert.
I settle on a stool at the counter, but can’t bring myself to so much as grab a carrot stick even though this is a favorite meal of mine. Just the kind of thing I’d have asked for or made, if I’d cared.
The blender whirs at the far corner of the kitchen. Corin stands in front of it, shirt sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. Other than having taken off his suit jacket he’s still fully dressed. His scent has settled back to its usual mix. It’s easy to tell, since he’s the only one around. The girls’ scents, from earlier today, have mostly faded.
There’s little left of Max’s orange and rum. Shortly after he died, I tucked his last pillowcase into a plastic bag to preserve the smell, then buried it at the back of my closet for a month, three months, a year from now—whenever I most need it again.
Just the two of us in this big, echoing, empty house.
Not talking.
Not on our phones, though, either. I don’t want to face emails, texts, or calls filled with either more condolences or a sharp, hard pivot back to real life, minus Max, with—at most—a hand wave at his having lived and now, being gone. Some of my friends and family are considerate, not pressing and letting me grieve however I need, but too many others seem to think death and mourning are boxes to be checked, then moved on from. Though I used to check work email after hours, all the queries and problems that will inevitably pile up can wait until Monday.
Ironic that I want to find something to fill the void, but I shrink from signs of a new normalcy. A few more hours, and I’ll be ready—or not.
The whirring stops and Corin pours a thick green-speckled red liquid into two glasses, one tall and one short.
“Drink it all.” He places the tall one in front of me.
“Trade you.”
The glass he keeps for himself is a third the size of mine.
