Jack
Six Weeks Later
Just walk up to the door and knock. You’ve done this a thousand times.
It took me a good, long while to convince myself to get in my beat-up old Jeep. Took even longer to start the car and put it in drive.
I’ve been parked in front of Aaron and Abby’s house nearly twice as long as that.
Losing Aaron has been a waking nightmare. And a sleeping one. A 24/7 terror that has me in its clutches, one that doesn’t seem like it’s going to loosen its grip anytime soon. I haven’t slept through the night since it happened. It’s not just about him being gone, but about the way he left.
A frantic call. Panic. Blue and red lights. Shattered glass. A car on its side.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I press the heels of my palms into my eyes, willing the images to go away, until a sharp rap on my window makes me jump about a foot out of my seat.
Rubbing my head where it hit the roof of the car, I turn to look out my window and find a very irritated redhead with her armsfolded, looking distinctly like Granny does when she’s cross with me. I swing the door open, finally exiting the two-ton hunk of metal I’ve been using as a shield from reality.
“You scared the shit out of me,” I mumble, head still throbbing.
“Well, you annoyed the shit out of me,” she mumbles back. “I’ve been looking out the window for twenty minutes waiting for you to get out of the damn car. Are you going to come inside or not?”
I look at the house and feel something akin to a boulder dropping in my stomach. I stare at it for a few moments, swallowing hard before turning back to Abby, whose expression has softened.
“The first time is the worst,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “But it gets easier every time. And you have something I didn’t.”
“What’s that?” I say, voice thick with emotion.
“Someone to do it with.”
Without another word, she slips her arm through mine and leads me up to the front door. Stepping through the doorway for the first time feels like passing through a portal to another world, one that shouldn’t exist–and one Idefinitelyshouldn’t be in.
There’s no jazz album loaded in the record player, no miscellaneous kitchen gadgets whirring in the background. No booming voice welcoming me with a clap on the back, a drink already poured for me. It’s quiet. Empty.
It’s not supposed to be this way.
“Come on, Jacky boy,” Abby coaxes me further into the house, not letting go of my arm until we’re both seated on the couch.
“This is weird,” I muse, mostly to myself.
“It’s like losing a limb,” she says. “You know it’s not going to grow back. You know nothing will ever be the same again. And as much as you try, you can’t ignore it.”
I nod silently.
“But,” she continues, “Slowly but surely, you learn to live with it.”
I swallow painfully, fighting the emotion crawling up my throat.
“Jesus, Abs, I should be the one comforting you,” I say hoarsely. “You lost your husband.”
“You lost your best friend. One loss isn’t worse than the other, they’re just…different.”
Her eyes meet mine, and I see the tears threatening to spill over.
“I miss you,” she says, voice wavering. “And I don’t want to lose you, too.”
“Why on earth would you lose me?” I ask, bewildered.
“I don’t know,” she says. “It almost feels like I already have. Aaron’s not here, and you’re not here, and I’m alone in this house, and–”
