My hands are marked by my profession, roughened by stems and thorns, scented faintly of earth and green things, no matter how often I wash them.
Nick kissed these hands—told me they were beautiful.
I look at them as grief washes through me. I’m mourning the end of a relationship. I’m mourning the loss of the man I love.
When Grandma Lucille died, grief came braided with gratitude—she had lived a full, good life. There is none of that here now. Nick Smith didn’t die whole. He just disappeared.
“Enyaaa!” Cass sings the moment she bursts through the door, her rainbow scarf trailing behind her like a technicolor comet.
Cass is an artist who creates with paint, stained glass, and profanity in equal measure. She runs a studio two doors downthat sells her art, other local pieces, and an eclectic assortment of spiritual healing items she believes in and works hard to convince others to, as well.
Today, she smells like lavender and blowtorches. “Wow! You look…not great. What the fuck is going on?”
I force a smile. “Rough morning.”
She gives me a measured look. “How come?”
I shrug.
She wrinkles her nose. “Where’s your elusive boyfriend?”
She’d be shocked to know how elusive he really is—so much so that I don’t even know his real name.
She only met Nick once.
He didn’t meet many of my friends—just my family. At the time, I told myself it was because he was private and an introvert. I filled in the gaps for him, the way women do when they’re in love.
But now the memories rearrange themselves.
He always had a reason not to come to trivia night. Or to Cass’s art opening. He never stayed long when my friends dropped by the shop—polite, charming, and then gone before anyone could really get a sense of him.
Elusive!
He never let himself be tagged in photos, never wanted to linger at birthday dinners, and never showed up to anything that didn’t somehow orbit my father.
I remember the way he’d kiss my temple and say,“Next time,”or“Another night,”or“I just want it to be us tonight.”
I thought it was romantic.
I can now see it for what it was.
He compartmentalized his life the way he did his work.
Family functions mattered. Diplomatic dinners mattered.
My friends—my real life—didn’t.Ididn’t.
I may not know him at all or only the version of himself he presented to me, but I do know that he’s goal-oriented.
He slid in and out of the parts of my world that served his purpose, leaving the rest untouched.
He was my whole life—and I thought I was his, but I was a corridor, a stepping stone.
I give Cass a weak smile.
She purses her lips and squeezes my shoulder. “Sugar or alcohol.”
I sniffle as I laugh. “Both?”
