"Oh, I don't think that's true one bit," she scoffs. "I think she desperately wants someone to help her. And probably feels guilty for it."
"Why would she feel guilty about that?"
"She's spent most of her life wanting help from one person. She never thought that'd change. That switch in your braindoesn't just turn off the second that person is gone," she says softly. "When your granddad died, accepting help from anyone else felt like an insult to his memory."
"I'm not saying it makes sense," she says loudly, stopping me from interrupting. "But grief doesn't make sense, my dear grandson. She's weathering one of the hardest storms a person can weather, and she's got a whirlwind of other feelings to sort through on top of that."
"So what do I do, Granny?” I say in a low voice.
“Be patient,” she says gently. “Fear always loses the battle.”
“Against what?” I ask.
“Love, sweet pea. You and your friends have loved each other for decades now,” she says. “That fear and guilt doesn’t stand a chance against that kind of history.”
“What if it does, though? What if she never talks to me again?”
“Oh, I highly doubt that will happen,” she scoffs. “Give her some time. And give yourself some, too. You always take on everyone’s problems, and I love that about you so much.”
Her voice wobbles, and I move my arm off my face so I can look at her. Her lower lip is trembling, hands grasping the arms of her wooden chair.
“But I hope you take time to set down everyone’s troubles for a while,” she says tearfully. “And stop ignoring yours.”
“I don’t have any troubles, Granny,” I say gruffly. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t start with me,” she says crossly, pointing a finger at me. “I know you better than anyone, Jack Robb, and I know that’s a load of hogwash. You don’t have to talk to me about it, but at least talk to yourself. I think you’ll be surprised at how much lighter everything feels when you do.”
Going home to my empty apartment that night felt like torture. Every night away from her feels like hell on earth. But I try to take Granny’s words to heart and reflect on my own shit.The pain of losing Aaron. The constant urge to make sure Abby’s okay. To make sureeveryone’sokay, all the time.
Granny’s right. I’m no good to anyone else if I’m ignoring my own needs. Eventually I’m going to snap.
I don’t want that to happen. I don’t want to be a ticking time bomb. I want to be a good friend, a good (future) fire chief, and someday a good…something else. To someone.
The truth of what I really want hits me like a freight train.
I want to be someone to a redhead that lights my world up, and the little girl I have a sneaking suspicion is going to do the exact same thing.
Chapter 33
Abby
Thirty Nine Weeks
"Knock, knock."
I turn over slowly, peeking over the duvet to find Ellie standing in my bedroom doorway. The second our eyes meet, my face scrunches up with the anguish I've been avoiding as long as possible.
"Oh, my sweet ginger angel," she says softly, climbing into bed next to me and laying so close that our noses are almost touching. "What happened?"
"I don't know," I whimper. "Everything was fine and then it wasn't."
That's exactly how it felt—like someone flipped a switch and all the hope and excitement turned into something dark and unbearable. I knew I didn't mean it when I told Jack I wanted him to leave. But something in my brain kept telling me that Ishouldmean it, that Ishouldbe feeling this miserable. Like if I'm not sad or scared enough, that means I'm not mourning properly. A horrendous little voice in the back of my mind repeats itself on an endless loop.
Your husband is dead. You will never be happy again. And you shouldn't want to be, not without him.
And especially not with someone else.
I recount the whole scene to Ellie, realizing that although it felt like a lifetime in the moment, everything unraveled in less than ten minutes.
