Caught off guard, Carter blinks at me for a moment in silence. “Easton?—”
“I’m not a fucking addict,” I bark at him as my hands shake with anger, not fear, a distinction I cling to. “I don’t need fucking rehab. And I sure as fuck don’t need some stranger asking me how Ifeelabout my dead wife. I knowexactlyhow I feel about her.”
“That’s not what I’m saying, East?—”
“You don’t get to tell me what this is,” I interrupt, my voice rising with every word. “You don’t get to slap a label on what I’m dealing with and pretend it’s something you can fix with meetings, pamphlets, and fucking coping skills. I could talk about her day and night, but it doesn’t matter. Itwon’tbring her back.”
Carter stands, too, his fight tight and brows furrowed. “This is killing you.”
“No,” I exhale. “What’s killing me is thatshe’s gone. You want the old me? The sober me? Fine. Bring Rosie back. Then we can talk.”
He opens his mouth, but I shove past him before he has the chance to say anything. I yank the door inward and storm out into the hallway, my feet echoing as I briskly stride to the elevator.
The ride down is a blur, my heart pounding and jaw aching from how hard I’m clenching it. By the time I reach the parking garage, my hands are fumbling anxiously for my keys. I climb into the Bronco and slam the door, sealing myself into the quiet. Slumped forward, with my forehead pressed against the steering wheel, I wage a futile war with myself before opening the glove box.
The bottle rests right where I left it. The cap twists off easily, and I take a long swig of the dark amber liquid. The burn hits immediately—sharp and familiar—spreading across my chest.
I don’t need help.
I lift the bottle again as the warmth dulls, needing it to soften the ache just a little.
I don’t need rehab. What I need is Rosie…
I need her laugh, her voice, and the settling calmness that would fall over me whenever she slipped her hand into mine. No amount of therapy is going to give me that back.
I take another drink and sink into the seat.
The truth—or the only truth that matters—is that if I can’t have Rosie, I’ll take whatever gets me closest to forgetting that she’s gone.
September 12th
Dear Reality,
We had our first fight. As I write this, I realize it was stupid, and that, even now, I don’t really know why we were fighting in the first place. One moment, we were tired and quiet, the next, we were sharp with each other. Every added word landed wrong, and the silence grew louder than it had any right to be. It wasn’t about anything real. Not really. Just exhaustion, stress, too many bills, and far too little money. But it still hurt.
What scared me most wasn’t the fight itself. It was the way my chest tightenedwith the old fear whispering that this is how things start to fall apart. Arguments create cracks you can’t fix. Fights make people walk out of your life. This is the beginning of being alone again.
I hate how fast my mind went there… How quickly my past tried to convince me that one bad moment could undo everything good we’ve been building together.
But then… he didn’t walk away. He didn’t shut down and push me out. We sat there, quiet and frustrated, until the anger softened. We apologized. Not dramatically, not perfectly… but honestly. He pulled me into his arms like he always does and held me until I realized he wasn’t going anywhere. He squeezed me until I knew this wasn’t the end of everything.
And suddenly, I understood something I’d never experienced before… Love isn’t the absence of conflict, but how you deal with it after.
We’re human. We’re tired. We’re learning how to live as a couple. And tonight proved thatwe won’t always get it right. It might be bumpy and rough, but in the end, we’ll choose eachother, anyway.
October 9th
Dear Forever,
I’m still not sure whether I’m awake or dreaming.
Easton proposed.
It was casual, but he proposed with intention, with thought, and with all the quiet certainty that made me fall for him in the first place. And somehow, even though I’ve known my heart was his for months, even though I’ve lived and breathed this love every day since that first taco-on-the-curb night, my legs nearly gave out when he knelt in front of me.
It wasn’t on some grand stage, with music and lights and strangers watching. It was in my tiny apartment—the same one I moved into thinking I could survive on my own. The same one that is now filled with his things as much as it is mine. He held my hand, looked into my eyes, and for a moment, the city outside faded entirely. The traffic, the honking horns, the late-night shouts from the street below—all of it vanished. It was justhim and me, and the quiet pulse of everything we’ve built together.
He didn’t just ask me to marry him. He made me feeleveryreason why he loves me, why he’s chosen me, and every dream he has of the life he wants to build with me. His words weren’t rehearsed, but they wereperfect. Tender and commanding at the same time—the same way he is when he’s with me. When he spoke, it was like time slowed down so I could hold on to every syllable and memorize every word of this moment.
