Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89978 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Both Astrid and Amelia giggle.
I want to crawl through the phone and hug my friend. I want to tell her how happy I am for her. Everyone deserves that level of happiness, especially my friend, who encompasses so much positivity and hope.
“I think this year I will put a big bow on my head and hope my family gets the significance of it.” I laugh.
Scottie smiles, but it’s a sad one.
Astrid ignores me.
And Amelia’s eyes fill with tears.
Shit.
I’ve lost my touch with the ladies.
“I don’t want to keep you from that bundle of joy. Merry Christmas, friends. I’m incredibly happy for you,” I say.
“Merry Christmas,” they chime together.
And I hate that Scottie knows my life isn’t perfect at the moment, but I’m alive, and that’s all that matters today.
After setting my phone on the table, I pick up my fork.
“I’m done,” Astrid says. “Can I play on my iPad?”
I nod.
When she skips out of the dining room, I reach for Amelia’s hand. She stills, staring at her plate of half-eaten food.
“I’m sorry. It was a joke. A bad joke.”
She doesn’t respond. The hum of the furnace seems to get louder the longer we sit here without speaking. Silence magnifies everything. When I left home a year ago, silence wasn’t my friend.
Now, I crave it.
“Are you still feeling bad?” she whispers.
“Does it matter?” I’m too tired to lie to her. She knows that answer.
Her gaze stretches to mine. “Don’t say that. Of course, it matters.”
I release her hand. “I feel like …” Shaking my head, I weigh my words. “I feel like I worked really hard to remove the weeds from an overgrown garden. And there was this moment, a sigh of relief that I did it—a hard-earned accomplishment. But if I blink and I’m not vigilant, the weeds will get out of control again.”
“But how are you feel—”
“Tired,” I cut her off because I know she needs the simple truth, even if she doesn’t know what to do with it. And she doesn’t. She’s so lost in her emotions that she can’t feel me. Maybe I’m so lost in mine that I can’t feel hers. “I’m tired, and sometimes my back hurts. This morning, I felt nauseous.”
Her eyes redden. “And you are thinner.”
Planting my elbows on the table, I rest my face in my hands, rubbing away the tension and building exhaustion.
“You shouldn’t have skipped your follow-up visit.”
“Jesus … we’ve been over this.”
Her lips part, taking a breath to speak, but she releases it without a word.
“I’m going to ask my mom to come get Astrid.”
“Why?” She squints.
“Because it’s going to get ugly.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
LET’S HURT TONIGHT.
“Thank you,” I say to my mom while waiting for Astrid to climb into the backseat. “We’ll get her in the morning. Goodnight, sweetie.” I kiss Astrid’s head.
My mom glances back at me, concern lining every inch of her face.
“Hope you and Mommy enjoy the movie,” Astrid says with an innocent smile.
“We will.” I shut the door, chalking this up to one more lie I’ve been forced to tell so that the people I love don’t suffer as much.
But my wife is not ten. She’s not my child. She is my partner. And I can no longer protect her from the truth. This is our sickness and health. This is where we decide what those vows mean. And I hate how angry I feel returning to our condo.
After I lock the door, I find her in the kitchen with a glass of white wine in one hand and her other resting on the edge of the counter. “I don’t know how to do this.”
I grunt, glancing up at the intricate details of the custom-molded ceiling. “Do this. What is this?” I meet her gaze. “Marriage? Cancer? A difference of opinions? Solving a problem? Pivoting when life puts up a really fucking huge roadblock?”
She sips her wine, hand a little shaky, emotions raw in her eyes.
This, whatever it is, will hurt. I can’t avoid it any longer.
“I don’t know how to let you go,” she whispers with the first few tears.
“You don’t know how to hold on to me. I feel like all you’re doing is letting me go. Escorting me to my grave.” I hate my words, but I can’t hide them any longer.
“That is not fair.” Her reply cuts through the air, making a chilling transformation in the mood. “How can you say that?” She wipes her cheek with the back of her hand.
“Because I work forty hours a week, and we don’t need the money. And I know I could quit and stay home, but I don’t want to be here either. I can’t focus here. I can’t journal or meditate because I spend all day thinking about this life that’s killing me. It’s cold as fuck outside, and I haven’t seen the sun in weeks. You have Astrid, a ten-year-old, in every goddamn activity she can possibly be in, which means we are constantly on the go. And people who are on the go rarely eat at home or eat anything that’s good for them. So, I’m back to putting shit in my diseased body. Tonight was the first time since Thanksgiving that we’ve eaten at home. I don’t have grass to walk on. I’ve given up on juicing because … what’s the point if everything else is in chaos? I get six hours of restless sleep, and that’s on a good night. So, you tell me … if your refusal to pack up and move to ‘the middle of nowhere’ is not escorting me to my grave, then what are you doing?”