All traces of irritation and worry vanish when she says, “Ava called.”
I groan, silently cursing my far-too-perceptive daughter for calling my overprotective best friend. This wouldn’t be the first time. In fact, it seems to be happening far more often than reasonable.
I know Ava doesn’t want me to be alone today, but I don’t wanther worrying when she should be focusing on studying for her exams. She’s a little over an hour away at a prestigious boarding school for the arts, and if it were her choice, she’d give up her dreams and come back home.
“She shouldn’t have done that. I told her I was fine.”
“She doesn’t think you are, Ally. You haven’t left your house for more than a grocery run this week. It’s your fortieth birthday and you aren’t celebrating, when we all know that birthdays are a big production with you.”
“I left my house,” I say indignantly, blowing a wayward piece of hair out of my eyes.
“Don’t be cranky. It’s unbecoming of a woman in her prime.” Her teasing lilt is meant to make me laugh, but I don’t.
“I’m not cranky and I’m not in my prime.”
“Sure you are!” she says far too cheerfully when moments ago it was all doom and gloom. “Forty is a prime number.”
“It’s not.”
“It isn’t? Hmm…” she murmurs, and I can see her clearly in my head, full lips pursed and one perfectly microbladed eyebrow cocked in contemplation. “Well, I guess you’re right. Nothing prime about forty.”
“I hate you.”
“You don’t,” she practically purrs.
She’s right. I cherish our friendship. Even more for her part in picking me up off the floor on numerous occasions over the last two years. Lanie has been a constant friend. One who hasn’t allowed all of me to break into the million tiny pieces it wants to. A fate my poor heart didn’t escape.
Two years ago, my soul was crushed, and it wasn’t with one hard knock to my front door.
The harsh reality is that I was sitting next to my husband Garrett the day he died. My head hit the side window, and the lastthing I remember is a bright light and the color red. For over a year, I relived the accident nightly. I didn’t have dreams; it was always the same nightmare. One I couldn’t wake up from.
Garrett died. I survived. And that truth has haunted me for a long time.
My eyes catch on Garrett’s ashes, which sit in a generic, unmarked container on top of my dresser. Too cliché for a life as beautiful as ours had been.
A tear slips down my cheeks unbidden, and I swipe it away.
Not today, Satan.
My current grief is brought to you by my birth. I only have room for one trauma at a time.
“Earth to Ally,” Lanie sings through the phone.
I shake my head, clearing my mind. “What did you say?”
“It’s your birthday, and it’s Thursday wine night. I know you said you didn’t want to celebrate, but you must. Nina and I are headed out, and you’re coming.”
I chance a glance into the floor-length mirror resting against my wall and grimace. My wavy strawberry-blond hair is matted at the crown of my head, and I have dark circles underneath my bloodshot eyes. The entirety of my face is blotchy and swollen, a byproduct of crying.
I’m a hideous beast today.
“No, thank you.”
My spoon scrapes the bottom of the empty ice cream carton, and the tears stream briskly down my cheeks.
It’s been two years and I know this breakdown isn’t about him. It’s about a number. Forty always sounded ancient and here I am living it and feeling every ache and pain that decided to start on this very day.
How convenient.
