When she opens my closet, I’m faced with the red dress from the gala, the fuzzy white sweater I wore on Thanksgiving, and Jack’s stupid jersey. Everything reminds me of him.
My face must drop, or maybe I just do my best Casper impression. Either way, Annie grabs my hand. “Okay, look, I’ll pick out an outfit for you.” Annie gently pushes me toward the bathroom. “This is where you’re on your own. Take a nice, steamy shower. You’ll feel better.”
June and Bridget cackle from the living room as I turn on the shower before ABBA blares over my speakers. My house is suddenly filled with a chorus to “Fernando” as I scrub off the drool caked on my face. My head still feels fuzzy, and I desperately need a coffee.
There’s not a chance in hell I’m going out.Not a chance, I think, scrubbing my skin raw. I’m okay here. I’m okay by myself.
I always have been.
Once I’m done, I dry off, get changed into the outfit Annielaid out for me on the bed—a pink swan sweater, a tan corduroy skirt, and white knitted tights. Feels a little too sweet for the rage and sadness simmering in my body; still, I go with it. I don’t have it in me to fight today.
There’s a soft knock at my door. “It’s Sarah.” She pushes into my bedroom with Olive passed out on her shoulder. She closes the door behind her quietly. “Listen. You don’t have to say anything right now, but you can’t stay stuck, okay? You wouldn’t let any of the ladies in this house just give up. You need us right now, and we’re here because that’s what good friends do.”
I wipe at my eyes, peering up at the ceiling with a frustrated groan. “I’m fine.”
She laughs, and then I laugh, too, because it’s such a ridiculous lie. I’m anything but fine. I was wearing Jack’s sweatshirt because I couldn’t take it off. Felt too final. That’s how not fine I am.
“Eyes or lips,” she says softly. “Put on some lipstick or mascara. You’ll feel a bit more human.”
I peek over at Olive, her daughter’s pudgy cheeks rosy, so peaceful and cozy.
Another painful twinge hits my heart. I don’t remember ever having that. No shoulders to cry on, no hugs when I was sad. My grandparents always seemed wrapped up in my mom’s life to worry much about me.
I remember on my sixth birthday, I was so upset my mom didn’t buy me a cake that I climbed up to the top of the refrigerator to grab a cookbook. Told her we still had time to make one. She told me to get down, that I’d hurt myself. The whole time, I just remember being so mad I couldn’t read. I slipped once I reached the counter, fell, and whacked my head on a cabinet knob. I needed three stitches.
I never had a birthday cake. But I remember the nurse gave me extra stickers to cheer me up.
Somewhere between that shitty birthday and now, I thought I’d learned the most important lesson of my life—I have me. I never let myself down. And until a few days ago, I never broke my own heart.
But having myself and shutting everyone out because I’m afraid to get hurt are very different things.
My mom isn’t here today. My friends are. And myfake-maybe-real-but-definitely-not-nowboyfriend’s grandmother and her best friend are too.
An hour later, Ethan drops us off by the club in Boston near Comm Ave. Sarah and Olive stayed in Merritt Point with Bridget and June, who decided to go grocery shopping for me. Bridget did make me the most delicious soup. At some point, I’ll have to pay them back, and I don’t even know how I’ll do that.
Annie is excited enough for me and her both. Which is great because I’d rather be back in bed. She bounces from foot to foot in a pair of metallic magenta cowboy boots, flirting with the burly bouncer.
“You ever call that cop you met at MGH?” I ask.
She grins. “Nah, I just wanted his number in case he leaked shit about my brother.”
I can’t help but laugh.
“My lab partner’s boyfriend won’t shut up about this band. Had to check them out. Thanks for coming tonight.”
I nod politely, looking around the dark, packed club as we step inside. This was never my scene, and honestly, I feel ancient right now. It’s loud and dark, and I’d rather be in bed.
Jack tried to call me, but I switched off my phone. Maybe that’s not fair, but it feels all too real, and some part of me is just hanging on to the thread that it could have been real.
We order drinks, and I’m half listening to Sloane tell somestory about her students when the lead singer of the band we’ve been listening to, a shorter woman with a shock of lime green hair twirls in front of the microphone.
“You know them. You love them. And you’ve been patiently waiting for them all night. Let’s welcome The Modern Atlantic to the stage!”
The lights shift from white to a dark blue as the crowd erupts. Band members slowly file out, until the bassist appears last with a familiar, easy swagger. He’s adjusting his strap, head down, and when he finally looks up?—
“Brooks?” Sloane nearly chokes on her drink.
Annie’s hand tightens around her glass. She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at the stage. Just stares straight ahead as if refusing to acknowledge him will make him disappear.
