The Loss Between Us
Brooke McBride
The Loss Between Us
Copyright 2019 by Brooke McBride
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1-7967-7624-9
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Publisher: Brooke McBride Books, LLC
[email protected]
Editing: Editing by Jessica Nelson at Rare Bird Editing
Cover Design: Perfect Pear Creative Covers
Cover Models: Jori Iser and Thomas Ware
Cover Image: Perrywinkle Photography
VISIT ME AT MY WEBSITE
www.brookemcbide.com
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Epilogue
Sneak Peak of Next Book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Connect with Brooke
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Dedication
To my husband for helping me find my passion.
To God for giving me the talent and courage to pursue it.
Chapter 1
I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. Glancing around the parking lot, I ask for a sign, any sign. Do I stay or do I go? My phone rings, and I already know who it is. Not exactly the sign I was hoping for.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Jensen dear, I’m glad I caught you.”
She knows where I am. She should, since she’s the reason I’m here. But, she’s checking up on me as usual. “I’m going, Mom. No need to call.” I sip my coffee and wish it were something stronger.
She releases a breath. “Oh, good.”
“Anything for you.” I try not to be sarcastic, but my mouth has different plans.
“Jensen, we’ve been through this. It’s not for me, it’s for you. I truly believe it will help.”
I check the clock. Ten minutes before I decide if I am getting out of the car. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one who has to sit there and listen to the sob stories.”
She clears her throat. My mother is a throat clearer. It’s a horrible habit. Yet, as I’ve gotten older, I realize it’s her way of stalling, getting up the confidence to say what she wants to say. I’ve never had this problem. I’m more like my dad in that I typically have strong opinions. And a big mouth, or so I’ve been told. Add that to the fact that I don’t care what anyone thinks about me anymore, and you’ve got a ticking time bomb on your hands. She clears her throat again.
“Well honey, I wouldn’t expect the mood to be light at a bereavement support group.”
I sigh and shift in my seat. “Mom, you checked on me. I’m going, okay?”
“Well…” Throat clears. “You know the offer still stands.”
“I’m aware.” I rub my eye. “But this isn’t someplace you take mommy and daddy.”
She sighs and I know she’s given up for today. I’ve won. “Okay, I’ll check in with you tomorrow, dear.”
“Of course you will. I’ll pencil you in.” I wait for her to say something, but she doesn’t. “It’s a joke.”
“Well, I would welcome your sense of humor. You used to have one.”
“I’m aware, Mom.” Weariness overtakes me as I lay my head back and sigh. It’s not her fault I’m no longer the vibrant, strong and fun daughter she raised. I don’t like it any more than she does. But it’s my reality. So I do what has become normal. Deflect. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Thank you for checking up on me and for pushing me to go to group.” There. The façade is back, and everyone, including me, can go back to pretending that it’s all going to be fine.
“I know it’s hard dear, but I think it’s what’s best for you.”
“Okay, Mom. Bye.” Beep. I drop my phone into the cupholder. It’s been five months since a friend recommended this group to my mother, and she has been like a dog with a bone ever since.
Killing the ignition, I glance at the clock. Five minutes before I decide to get out of the car or not. I pull out a cigarette and roll it between my fingers. I don’t smoke—well, not anymore. It’s something I started after Jeff died. A distraction. An escape. An opportunity to excuse myself when people walked up with downcast eyes oozing sympathy. But they always took the hint when I blew smoke in their direction and didn’t respond to their remarks. Once people got tired of asking how I was and left me alone, I stopped smoking. Now it’s a security blanket I use when I’m uneasy.
I’ve done this exact ritual in this parking lot several times, only to turn around and go back home. These people meet every Tuesday, so in theory, I should have participated in this group over twenty times. But this would only be my fourth time attending. It’s not for me. I don’t see the point. Therapy can’t change what happened, but I go to appease my mother.
I glance at the clock again. Three minutes. I’m not going, not today. I’m reaching for the keys when a motorcycle rumbles into the church parking lot. A man rides in like it’s his personal driveway. He slows, glances around, and pu
lls away to park closer to the entrance. I never park close to the entrance. I sit back off to the side while I weigh going versus not going. If I don’t go, my mother will hear about it, somehow. She seems to have eyes and ears everywhere in this city. And Kansas City is not small, so I’m not sure how she does it. If I do go, the pain of sitting in that room usually outweighs the pain of my mother’s guilt trip.
Clenching the steering wheel, I check the clock one final time and realize it’s time to go. As I reach for my keys, there’s a tapping on my window. I glance to my left and see a chest covered in a tight, plain white T-shirt embraced by a leather jacket. Before my cheeks have a chance to warm, the rider leans down and smiles. “You comin’?”
I glance behind him. He’s backed his bike in right next to me, essentially blocking me in. “Excuse me?”
I peer up at him as he removes his aviator sunglasses. “I asked if you were coming. Saw you sitting here. Assumed you’re here for group?” He says it as a question, and I feel the need to slap that smirk right off his face. Why does he care if I’m going?
He’s speaking loudly so I can hear him through the closed window. I’m not deaf, idiot. But if he’s going in, I’m not. I’m not used to sharing the circle with men I find attractive. I never find men attractive anymore. But especially not Harley-riding epitomes of bad-boy man meat. I would tell my ovaries to calm down, but they haven’t had a pulse for what seems like years. Yet it’s only been nine months.
He tucks his sunglasses into his shirt. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”
“I don’t know why it’s any concern of yours, but no, I’m not here for group.”
“Are you sure? I, uh…thought I’ve seen you here before.”
There is something familiar about him, but I don’t recognize him. His voice is familiar. Was he at group when I was in one of my grief comas? Maybe, but I don’t think so. Fidgeting with my brown hair, I glance in the rearview mirror realizing it’s a lost cause. I’m not the most attractive person, but certainly not the worst. As with anything in life, you should put some effort into it, but I haven’t since Jeff died. I don’t care what I look like, or at least I’m not supposed to as the grieving widow.
He’s still staring at me. I grow more nervous. Not in that potential serial killer, let-me-grab-my-mace way, but like a schoolgirl crush where your hands start to sweat and you want to avert your eyes. “Um, don’t think so. You, I would have remembered.”
He weaves his hand through hair that matches the color and sheen of his black leather jacket, and sections of it stand on end. It gives a new definition of helmet hair. It suits him. His mouth twitches up on one side, like a little boy’s mischievous grin. “You would have remembered me, huh?”
Huffing, I swing open my door and step into his space. “Look, I’m sure you get off on this in some weird way, but whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.”
His grin only broadens. He walks backward, his hands in the air. “I get it. Just trying to be nice.”
My glare follows him through the church doors. What a smug asshole. My pulse is pounding, and I feel tingly and anxious. My breathing becomes shallow, and I take a few deep breaths to calm myself down. I’ve let my anger take over. Again. It’s a lovely side effect of my situation that I’ve grown quite used to. People rub me the wrong way on a pretty consistent basis. I remind myself it’s me, not him. I’m already out of the car, so I might as well follow him. I sigh, reach for my phone, and hit the key lock. As I cross the parking lot, I try and calm myself down by focusing on the cool March breeze. I push a few stray hair tendrils that are blowing around my face and tuck them behind my ear.
Inside the double doors, my eyes adjust from the outside sun to the blinding overhead fluorescent lights. Smells of glue, play dough and peanut butter waft through the room. The church preschool classroom has been transformed into a support group with chairs in a circle. I feel sorry for these walls. They spend their days getting boogers wiped on them and crayons dug into them. Then they spend their nights listening to sad and pathetic people bare their souls about how hard it is to move forward. How unfair life is.
I scan the room and see three open seats. One is next to Harley man with another empty seat next to it. The other is sandwiched between Mrs. Olsen, who smells like mothballs, and Larry Riley, a mechanic who smells like oil. I break through the circle and move toward Mrs. Olsen and Larry.
Larry’s eyes light up as I move in his direction. “Well, hi there.”
Forcing a smile, I wedge myself between them. Mrs. Olsen pats my thigh. “Good to see you.”
I try to ignore Larry but I feel him eyeing me. He seems to think since we’re the only ones here under the age of fifty that we’re somehow meant to be friends—or more. His eyes roam down my body, and I scoot my chair more toward Mrs. Olsen.
Pastor Paul greets the group. “Okay folks, we’re a few minutes late, so we need to get started. It looks like we have a new face in the crowd.”
The pastor’s welcome is for Harley man. That jerk said he had been here before. He smirks at me and then says, “Hi, I’m Nash.”
The rooms says “Hi, Nash” in unison, except for me. I roll my eyes. I’ve always thought that welcome was inconsequential.
Chapter 2
Pastor Paul’s pearly whites shine as he welcomes Nash. It’s standard operating procedure for any grief-stricken person who comes to group. Even though he’s doing his job, I still want to punch him in the face. I won’t, of course. As a former lawyer, I’m aware that the ramifications of third-degree assault aren’t worth it, but damn is he annoying. Maybe next time I’ll spike his coffee with a laxative. I sigh, realizing once again it’s me, not him.
“We’re glad you’re here. Please let me go over some ground rules. What happens in this room stays in this room. This is a safe space, one of respect, understanding and confidentiality. We assume good intent, and we listen when other people are talking. Simple, right?”
“Sounds simple enough.” Nash stares at me as he answers. I force my eyes downward so that I don’t have to look at him. Why is he focusing only on me?
“Okay, great.” Pastor Paul regards the circle and rubs his hands together. “Who would like to start?”
Mrs. Olsen starts. As always. “Forty-six wonderful years we had together, and then poof.” I grab her hand as she wipes her eyes with her ever-present hankie. I can’t imagine spending forty-six years with anyone. Jeff and I married at twenty-six, right after law school. I said till death do us part, and though I never imagined forty-six years, I certainly imagined more than four.
I sneak a peek at Nash and he is still gawking at me. He grins and I dart my eyes away. I run my hands through my hair and realize it’s a little greasy. When did I last shower? Three—no, four days ago. Ugh.
Mrs. Olsen finally shuts up and lets go of my hand, and a couple more people chime in. I don’t talk. I never have, and I don’t plan to. That doesn’t mean Pastor Paul hasn’t tried every time I’ve been here.
“Jensen, you’ve been quiet tonight.”
Refusing to look up, I pick at my jagged nails. “Same as every other night.”
“Right. Well…would you like to talk about anything?”
I cross my arms and slide down my chair. “Nope.”
“Are you sure?” His pleading eyes remind me of every other counselor I’ve come in contact with since Jeff died. They all want you to talk. In nine months, I have yet to see how talking helps.
“No.” My voice is firmer now. “Thank you.”
Resigned, he sighs and drifts his attention to Nash. “I know you’re new, but would you like to share anything with the group?”
Nash studies the group and mirrors my stance by crossing his arms. “Not tonight.”
Pastor Paul makes one more circle around the group. “Anyone else care to contribute?” I notice no hands shooting up in the air saying “Pick me, pick me.” Big surprise. “Okay, then I guess we’re done early. Thank you and we’ll
see you next week.”
I shoot up from my chair and try to make my escape. But Pastor Paul isn’t finished. “Jensen, can I have a word?”
Stepping back, I pivot as Pastor Paul stands. But he’s the one with the crossed arms now. I take a peek at Nash. He’s still sitting, ankle resting on his knee, one arm on the back of the chair beside him, studying his phone. In his own world. I face Pastor Paul, dread in my stomach as if I’m being sent to the principal’s office. Then Larry is approaching me, and I waffle between the lesser of two evils.
Mrs. Olsen begins speaking with Larry, so I don’t have a choice but to move toward Pastor Paul. “Yes?”
“Let’s take a walk, shall we?”
I’m not falling for that again. He’s going to try to get me to open up to him one-on-one. “I don’t have time.”
“I talked to your mom recently.”
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