Mom props her shoulder against the wall, studying me with motherly worry. “West says you’ve been doing better.”
My hands are perched beneath my cheek as I rest atop a decorative pillow. Our dog, Marley, an old Dachshund, lies curled up at my feet. “I am doing better.”
I’m not great. I’m not thriving.
But I’m better.
And better is better.
“How are the meetings going?” she wonders after a thoughtful sigh.
My cheeks grow hot when the first thing that pops into my mind is Parker and our strange altercation this evening. I should be thinking about the starting points, or Ms. Katherine’s kind smile, or Amelia’s sad stories, or Robert’s brush with death when someone lost control of a Civic and almost flattened him.
But all I see are Parker’s flaming green eyes and the feel of his fingers curled around my biceps. All I smell is his earthy shampoo and body soap. All I hear are the thunderous heartbeats in my chest when I felt it.
The tingle.
Swallowing, I shift on the sofa and avert my gaze. I can’t tell my mother any of that. I don’t even understand it myself.
Parker is a jerk. A closed-off, emotionally-stunted jerk who probably spits on my cupcakes before tossing them to the ground and smashing them beneath his dirty boot.
It was just a fluke.
“They’re going good.”
So lame, but so safe.
Mom sighs again, a smile lifting—also safe—and shuffles back into the kitchen with a nod. Restlessness claims me within moments, and I pull out my cell phone. I’m prepared to Facebook scroll when I notice the little green dot by Zephyr’s name as I do a quick check of my e-mail.
He’s active.
I’ll take that as a sign.
Me: What are you doing tonight? Nothing too specific, obviously, but I need to know you’re out there killing it—unlike me, who is wallowing on her parents’ ultra-90s couch with food regret, mismatched socks, and an overwhelming desire to watch Are You Afraid of the Dark? reruns.
Not thinking he’s going to see my message right away, I set my phone down on the little side table next to the couch—the same old oak table I remember picking up at a garage sale when I was seven or eight.
There are rooster drawer handles.
Smiling to myself, I ponder whether or not Zephyr will even know what television show I’m talking about. I’ve been trying to figure out what the seventy-nine in his e-mail address alludes to, and birth year is statistically the most probable. That would make him… forty-two.
I’m startled when my phone instantly vibrates, and I snatch it up, my eyes scanning the reply.
Zephyr: I’ll sound a lot cooler if I lie to you.
A grin pulls at my lips.
Me: Fair enough. I’m expecting gold now, though… no pressure.
Zephyr: I’m fantastic under pressure. Picture this: Gloucestershire, England, UK.
Me: Fancy.
Zephyr: I know. But it gets better… there’s cheese.
Me: Cheese?
Zephyr: Yeah. A nine-pound wheel of double Gloucester cheese.
Me: The mental image is a bit unclear, and also bizarre. Go on.
Zephyr: It’s a race down Cooper’s Hill. There’s danger, intrigue, steep hills, stones, and sharp objects. The speed of the cheese is harrowing at best.
Me: The speed of the cheese? I thought you were eating the cheese.
Zephyr: No. I’m rolling the cheese. It’s a cheese-rolling race, and it’s highly competitive.
A laughter-infused snort escapes my lips, and it takes a moment to gather my bearings.
Me: I’m dying over here.
Zephyr: I hope not. Who will celebrate my victory when I become the cheese champion?
Me: Stoppp. I can’t stop laughing. What do you even win?
Zephyr: I’m not sure. Google hasn’t told me that yet. But I really hope it’s cheese because I’m suddenly crazy hungry.
My smile is so wide, my cheeks ache.
Me: That was great. I feel better about my inadequate life now.
Zephyr: I’m here to help.
Nibbling my lip, I debate my next reply. While I enjoy our light and witty conversations, part of me is craving more. I promised I wouldn’t ask him anything personal, but…
Me: Hey. Can I ask you something?
There’s a brief pause that has me fidgeting beneath Nana’s lime green quilt.
Zephyr: I never understood that question. Can you? Obviously. Will I answer to your heart’s desire? Inconclusive.
Me: Fine… I’ll ask, but no pressure to answer. I just wanted to know… how is your new heart? What’s it like?
I wait.
I wait some more.
Anxiety surges inside me, and I wonder if he’ll ever respond.
Shit.
Maybe I crossed a line.
“Did you want dessert?”
Shutting off my phone, I sit upright on the couch, watching Mom approach from the kitchen. “Oh, no thanks. I was actually going to head out. I’m drowning in my own desserts at home.”
That’s code for: It’s hard to be here. Conversations are difficult. Sitting in this living room without him makes me want to jump off the roof.
But I can’t tell her any of that, so I just smile my farewell.
I’m good at that.
I’m sitting in park, waiting for a freight train to pass through, when I notice my phone light up from the passenger’s seat. Thinking it might be Zephyr, a little zing of anticipation shoots through me and I snatch it up, checking my notifications.
Only, it’s not Zephyr.
My stomach drops when the name stares back at me: Eleanor March.
Charlie’s mother.
I haven’t spoken to Charlie’s mother since the funeral. Her heartbreaking wails still rattle my eardrums whenever it’s too quiet. I still see her swollen, lifeless eyes whenever I close mine. Sometimes I feel her stiff embrace as I collapsed into her arms in front of his casket, ambushing her with my grief and despair, soaking her dress with a cataclysm of tears.
And I still feel the way my skin prickled with goosebumps and dissolution when she let me go.
She let me go.
I needed her then; I needed her more than I needed air. Eleanor March was my final link to the biggest piece of my heart, and I think that’s why I never made any progress in my healing. Losing her was like losing Charlie all over again.
Every day that she shut me out was just another day he died.
My hands begin to quake as a torrent of rainfall blurs my windshield, the wipers hardly able to keep up. I open her text message, my throat burning, my ribs aching with the weight of my heart.
Eleanor: You’re a wicked girl
I blink, and then I blink again. I’m having trouble processing the four words glaring back at me. I don’t understand what they mean. Did she text the wrong person?
No.
No, these words are meant for me.