At the same time, Ben had taught him to box, or at least, the different types of punches used in boxing. Josh never hit any human, but hitting the bag was . . . cathartic.
Now, at 8:42 p.m., he could see the red rising. Still time to head it off at the pass.
He went to the always empty gym on the first floor of their building and beat the shit out of a punching bag.
Barefisted. The smack of his fists against the hard leather, the exhale with the effort, the sting of the punch, the ache radiating up his arm weren’t enough. Harder. Harder. The hiss as he punched the bag turned into exhalations of ha! ha! Sweat poured off his body. The exhalations turned into words—No. No. No. No. Then, into curse words so foul and filthy he should’ve been ashamed. But he wasn’t. He was furious.
She shouldn’t have died. She should not have died, goddamnit, and the motherfucking idiotic way-behind-the-times motherfucking healthcare system fucked her over and left her for goddamn dead and had motherfucking nothing, nothing, nothing to offer her, the stupid sonofabitch asshole fucking shit, shit shit fuck.
His fury bounced off the walls, echoing, and his knuckles were bleeding now, his fists sliding as they landed on his own blood, and good, good, the pain felt better than the helpless oppressive nothingness.
Finally, staggering from exhaustion, sweat running down his bare torso, his hands looking like they’d been through a meat grinder, he staggered to grab a towel and mop himself up.
Creepy Charlotte, with her pale blue eyes that were too far apart, smiled at him from the doorway. “Want to grab a drink, Josh?”
“Jesus Christ, no,” he said. He got the disinfectant wipes and scoured the punching bag, distantly noting the burn on his knuckles.
“Another time, then.”
“No. Never.”
“See you soon.”
And people thought he was bad at reading signals.
The punching bag had done the trick. He was so tired, he had to take the elevator up the two floors to his apartment. He showered, the hot water stinging his hands. When he was done, he went into their room, closing the door so Pebbles wouldn’t come in and mess up the bed.
Last week, he’d awakened already knowing she was gone. He didn’t reach out for her. That in itself ripped his heart apart all over again. Two months and one week was all it took for his muscles and instinct to adjust. Reaching for her had been his habit in marriage; now, marriage was over, and his stupid body recognized that.
He had stopped checking her side of the bed in the middle of the night. Stopped wondering if she was already up. He didn’t call her name. He didn’t check his watch, wondering if it was time for her meds or a walk or some breathing exercises. He didn’t accidentally reach for two plates at dinnertime, whenever that was, and when he realized he didn’t, he deliberately set out two plates, because the acceptance of her absence was worse than the forgetting of her death.
She was dead. It was a fact now, and that was more awful than walking into a room and wondering where she was. He shouldn’t get used to this. It was grotesque to even consider.
And now, today. May first, the day he had proposed to her four years ago. He’d gotten down on one knee as the crab apple blossoms rained down gently all around them, and asked Lauren Rose Carlisle to be his wife.
He went to her bureau and opened her jewelry box, where he’d put her engagement and wedding rings at some point. He didn’t have a clear memory of that, but here they were. He’d give them to Octavia someday, he supposed. Or to Sebastian, for his future wife. Or he could throw them in the fucking ocean, at the beach on Cape Cod, where they’d had so many beautiful days and nights. Maybe he’d just walk into the ocean himself with the rings in one hand, his pockets loaded with rocks to weigh him down. Maybe a passing great white shark would eat him, and he could be dead, then, too.
Two ghosts drifted around their apartment—Lauren, and the Josh who had been her husband, so much more than this empty bag of bones.
For the first time since the night she’d gone into the hospital with the pneumonia that killed her, Josh lay on their bed. Not in it . . . just on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling. He’d had to wash the comforter after Pebbles and her Korean chicken adventure, but Lauren’s pillow had been untouched by the sticky sauce. He leaned over and inhaled, smelling her, and the invisible fist of grief slammed him in the heart.
He lay on his back, cradling the pillow, worried that it would lose its Lauren smell. Don’t move, he told himself, so tired that the thought made sense. Don’t move, and it won’t find you. If he could stay empty, he wouldn’t wind up on the floor, howling. He prayed for sleep, for a dream about his wife, but his eyes stayed open.
12:14 a.m.
1:21.
2:07.
3:38.
4:15.
5:03.
5:49.
Light filtered into the room. He could get up now. He made coffee. Opened the fridge. Closed the fridge. Took Pebbles out to pee. Came back up to drink the coffee.
He went onto the online forum for young widowers and widows and asked how people survived this. Drink lots of water, people reminded him, his fellow amputees, fellow husks. Congratulate yourself on getting out of bed or eating something. Get some exercise. Be kind to yourself. Process the trauma, the forum people said, whatever that meant.
He tried to remember if he’d taken the dog for a run yesterday. Maybe? He could go for a run now. It was drizzly and gray outside. He might have to give Pebbles a bath afterward. That would kill some time. So he pulled on his running shoes and out they went.
People were on their way to work. Lots of raincoats, lots of umbrellas, lots of fast walkers going into buildings. Josh kept running, turning at the river, running at the base of College Hill. His earbuds were in, though he had forgotten his phone, or left it behind subconsciously. Still, the earbuds would protect him. Providence was a small city, and he’d grown up here, gone to two colleges here. He didn’t want to see anyone, talk to anyone. They’d blown their chance yesterday.
It was a shock, this continuing world. So many people were happy. Didn’t they know what was in store for them? Look at me and despair, he wanted to tell them, like Jacob Marley’s ghost. I was once you. He wanted to grab one of those happy assholes and shake them.
He stopped at a red light, then ran when it changed, stepping into an ankle-deep puddle of tepid water. Pebbles’s belly was wet and dingy.
God, he missed being married. Coming home to someone. Someone to ask where his other sock was. Someone to tease. Someone to touch. He was alone in a sea of people, all of them connected, it seemed. He had his mom. The Kims. Somewhere out there, the biological father who had deserted him before he was born, so what good was he? He had Lauren’s small family.
That was it.