Watch.
Bracelets.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My hair has grown longer, and it’s now past my shoulders, but the once lustrous brown locks are now dull and lifeless. My eyes are much the same. My cheeks are still hollowed, and my lips have thinned. I look like I’ve aged ten years in a month and a half. Stress and grief will do that to you.
I grab my purse and walk out of my closet. I’m meeting a client at a local hotel so we can check it out before booking any space for an event.
When I step into the kitchen, my parents are both sitting at the kitchen table with a spread of breakfast food. My dad has a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose and a newspaper held between his hands. He must’ve gone out to get it because Ben and I don’t get one.
I mean I don’t get one.
“I made you breakfast,” my mom smiles cheerily. She’s ecstatic to see me up and dressed, ready for work. It’s all a façade, though. My insides are gray and stormy and the effort to get ready has nearly drained me. I only hope that I can make it through this meeting before I give up.
My nose wrinkles. “I’m not hungry.”
“Blaire—”
“I’ll grab a bagel from the coffee shop or something.” I wave a hand dismissively. I’d say just about anything right now to get her off my back. I’m horrible, I know. She’s only doing what any concerned mother would do in her situation. I’m just testier than normal—I think I have that right.
I grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator and stick it in my purse.
“I’ll be back soon,” I say.
“Good luck,” my mom says, giving me a thumbs up.
“Bye, love you guys.” I wave and head out the door.
My mom might be driving me up a wall, but I am thankful that they’re here. A few weeks ago I wanted nothing more for them to leave, and now I’m dreading the day they fly back to Florida. The last thing I want is to be alone in this big house.
I get in my car and drive over to the local coffee shop. I end up ordering a caramel latte and a croissant, then I park my car in the lot so I can eat in relative peace. I still have thirty minutes before I have to meet my client.
I take a bite of the chocolate croissant and moan. It’s the best thing I’ve eaten in weeks—completely unhealthy but wholly delicious. I eat the whole thing in a matter of bites. I should probably be embarrassed by that fact, but I’m so happy that something actually tasted good that I can’t bring myself to care.
I take a sip of my latte and—oh no.
I throw open my car door and spit up the coffee.
That was awful. I take off the lid and eye the amber-colored liquid. It looks normal, and I’ve had this drink plenty of times, but man it was strong today. I end up dumping it out, tossing the cup on the floor of my car to throw away later.
I drive over to the hotel and park across the street in the parking garage. The hotel is fairly new in a busy part of town. I’ve never been here before. The outside is nice, in a minimalistic modern way. It’s gray on the outside, four levels, with long glass windows everywhere. The name of the hotel is spelled out in blue neon cursive letters on the outside of the building. I grab my purse and sling it over my shoulder before I head inside.
The inside has concrete floors and long gray couches with no backs. The front desk is directly in front of you when you walk in, and the front of it shimmers with blue light that matches the sign on the outside of the building.
My client isn’t here yet, so I take a seat on one of the uncomfortable couches and wait. I grab my compact mirror from my purse and check my makeup. I haven’t worn any in so long that applying it this morning took some effort. Luckily, it doesn’t look cakey, but my lipstick is fading so I reapply it.
A few minutes later, a tall woman dressed in a business suit with long red hair comes into the lobby.
“Jessica?” I call.
“Blaire?” she responds. “It’s nice to meet you.”
I stand and offer her my hand. She gives it a quick shake and lets go.
“Have you checked out the space yet?” she inquires.
I shake my head. “I was waiting for you.”
“Do you know which way it is?” she asks.
I frown. I should’ve asked the receptionist that before Jessica arrived. In fact, that’s what I normally would’ve done. My brain isn’t working right.
“No, sorry. Let me ask. Wait here.” I leave her by the couches and go to ask. Once I have directions, I lead her through the hotel the event room.
The room boasts large, glass, double doors that are tinted so you can’t see inside. I open the door and motion her in first.
The space is large and currently empty since they don’t have any events happening today. One wall is lined with windows while the others are solid. Three modern chandeliers hang from the ceiling.
“We could hang some draperies around the windows,” I say. “To soften it,” I add.
“I think this space will be perfect. It’s large enough to section space off into rooms, right?” she asks.
“Yes.” I nod. “We can do that.”
“I think this will be perfect for the reception.” She smiles and looks around some more. “You don’t plan weddings too, do you?”
I flinch, but she doesn’t notice. “It’s not really my thing,” I say. “I prefer parties.”
“I understand,” she nods. “I think my wedding planner was disappointed I didn’t use her for the reception, but I love your style.” She shrugs. “I’ll admit to stalking your website.”
I laugh. “Well, I’m glad I could help make your day special. We’ll get the place booked and then we can meet again to discuss your ideas. Or you can email me, whichever is easier.”
“I think I’d prefer to meet. Lunch next Friday?” she asks.
“I’ll check my schedule, but that should be perfect.” I pull my planner from my purse and check the date. “Yes, that’s fine. I’m writing you in now. You can email me where you want to meet.”
She smiles. “Great, I’ll see you then. I hate to run out, but I’m missing work for this so I have to go.”
“Oh, of course.” I wave my hand. “Go on, I’ll take care of this.”
“Thanks so much.” She smiles gratefully and leaves.
I walk around the space, taking measurements and allowing myself to visualize what can be done with the space. Unfortunately, I’m not getting many ideas like I normally would. It’s like I’m all tapped out.
I head to the front desk and let them know when we need the space. I give them Jessica’s contact information so they can get ahold of her for the deposit and then I leave to head home.
I’m exhausted by the time I walk through the door and it’s not like I did anything. I hate feeling like this—like I’m walking through sludge.
“Hey, sweetie,” my mom says before I can close the door.
“Hey,” I reply, kicking off my heels and shrugging out of my coat. I drop my coat on the chair instead of hanging it up and putting it away in the closet.
“How’d it go?” she asks.
“Good.”
“Good?” She raises a brow from where she sits on the couch in the front room. “That’s all I get?”
“We saw the space, she decided to book it, and left because she had to get to work. There isn’t much to tell, Mom.” I collapse on the chair in front of her.
She sets the book she’d been reading on the coffee table. “So I was talking to this woman at the grocery store today about your situation, and she told me about this group—”
“Mom,” I groan, “why do you have to talk about my business with strangers?”
My mom has always been that way—telling everyone everything. When I was twelve she told the neighbors I’d started my period. I couldn’t look them in the eyes for six months.
“Because you never know what you might learn when you talk to people, Blaire,” she admonishes. “Anyway, she told me a
bout this grief group. I guess it’s sort of like alcoholics anonymous only for sad people.”
“For sad people? Really, Mom?”
She shrugs and smiles. “I didn’t know how else to say it.”
“So what do they call it? Sad Saps Share?”
She laughs. “No. It’s just called Group.”
“Sounds like an illness.”
“That’s croup.” She shakes her head. “I think you should go. At least once. It might help you to cope, and it might be better than seeing a therapist. These people have lost someone too.”
I shake my head and push up from the chair. “The last thing I need is to be surrounded by more people like me.” I head for the kitchen and she follows. I grab the orange juice from the refrigerator and pour a small glass. “I’m fine … Okay, I’m not fine,” I add when she glares at me, “but I’ll get there.”
“Not on your own,” she whispers and tears pool in her eyes. “You need help, Blaire.”
I lay my hands flat on the counter. “Mom, Ben died.” I choke on the word. “I don’t know how you can expect me to be okay so soon. It doesn’t work like that.”
“I know,” she agrees, “but you’re not even trying.”
I close my eyes. We have this argument practically every day.
“Here,” she says, and I open my eyes. She’s pulling a scrap of paper from her pocket and she slides it across the counter to me. It has a phone number scrawled across it in unfamiliar handwriting. “That’s the number of the guy who leads the group. Call him. Please. But don’t do it for me. Do it for you.”
I take the piece of paper and hold it in my palm. I stare at the ten numbers. I want to throw the paper away, but for some reason I don’t.
I close my fist around it and hold on.
“Here, Kid.” My dad holds out a plastic bag from Walgreens.
“What is this?” I raise a brow and take it from him. I peek in the bag and pale. “Dad. No.” I shake my head back and forth rapidly and shove the bag back in his hands. “I’m not pregnant. I got my period this morning.” I sniffle and look away. I hadn’t wanted to tell him, or anyone. I’d been holding onto one last ounce of hope that I was pregnant. When I saw the pink stain in my underwear it was like a kick to the gut. Now, I think my illness was normal and probably a result of not eating much and not being able to eat much. Grief, I’ve learned, is crippling.
His shoulders sag dejectedly. “I really thought …”
“Me too, Dad,” I whisper. I wipe away a tear. I think a part of me believed a baby would fix this. Fix me. But I realize now it would’ve only made things worse—how on Earth would I raise a baby by myself?
He tosses the bag in the trashcan and covers it with stuff so my mom won’t find it. I have to smile to myself over the thought of my dad going to a drugstore and buying a pregnancy test. I mean, he dresses like a lumberjack—jeans, flannels, and heavy boots—and he just has the aura of being a tough guy.
I’m sitting at the kitchen table with my laptop, working on ordering decorations for a corporate party.
“How you feelin’, Kid?” He pulls out the chair across from me and peers at me from over the top of my laptop.
I shrug. “Better than I thought I would. This is … It’s for the best,” I say. He raises a brow like he highly doubts that. “Look at me,” I add. “I’m a mess. I can’t raise a baby right now.”
“Your momma and I would help you.”
“Dad …” I shake my head. “you guys have your own life.” I sigh and look away.
“You are our life,” he says. “We’d do anything for you.”
“I know that.” I nod. “But you don’t have to.”
“There’s no have to about it—we want to.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I pick up the cup of hot tea beside me and take a sip. I instantly cringe. So much for hot tea, it’s cold now. “I’ve got work to do,” I tell him.
He nods. “All right, I’ll leave you alone.” He raises his hands innocently.
He leaves me to go watch TV.
I finish what I’m doing and close my laptop. I rub my hands over my face and groan. It’s not even lunchtime, and I’m exhausted. All I want to do is go to bed and sleep. I don’t seem to have the energy anymore to make it through the day.
I glance to my right at the refrigerator. The stupid phone number for the grief group. I’d ended up throwing the number away, but my mom found it and stuck it there. I haven’t moved it. It’s taunting me. My gut tells me to call, but my heart says it’s not ready to move on. Besides, I don’t know if I can handle being around other grieving people—hearing their stories, sharing their pain. I’m scared it’ll push me over the edge I’m dangling precariously from, but on the other hand, I think it might actually help.
“Call the number, Kid.”
I jump at the sound of my dad’s voice and turn to find him watching me from the family room—the TV now muted.
“How’d you know?” I ask.
“I know everything.” He taps his forehead. “Dad powers.” I look back at the phone number but make no move to grab my phone. “Look at it this way,” he begins, “if you go to one and hate it you don’t have to go back. But if you like it, this might be exactly what you need.”
I give him a small smile. “Dad, has anyone ever told you that you’re really smart?”
His dismisses my words with a wave of his hand. “That’s your momma, not me.”
“She’s smart,” I agree, “but you are too.”
As if conjured by our words, she arrives home at that moment, bumbling through the door with bags of groceries. She goes to the grocery store almost every day. I know it’s an excuse for her to get out of the house. She usually buys ingredients to make some recipe she finds on Pinterest. Seriously, the woman is a Pinterest addict. I’m expecting her to start crafting any day now.
“Hey,” she says, closing the front door, “what are you guys up to?”
“Blaire was just about to make a phone call,” my dad answers. I’m thankful that he doesn’t make a big deal out of this. If he told my mom was going to call the group she’d probably start dancing and singing, which would only embarrass me and make me not call. “Did you get me any beer?” he asks her, distracting her from me.
She answers him, but I’ve already tuned them out.
I have the number memorized, so I don’t even have to look at the paper when I enter the numbers into my phone. “I’ll be in my office,” I say, holding up my phone.
My mom nods, thinking it’s a work call.
I head upstairs and into my office, closing the door behind me.
I take a seat on the swing and make the call.
It rings. And rings. And rings. Just when I’m about to hang up, a man answers.
“Hey, hello? Sorry—hold on a second,” he says. “Cole, don’t do that. I told you not to color on the walls. Give me that.” I hear some shuffling and then, “Sorry about that, my son was trying to color on the walls. You take your eyes off him for five seconds and suddenly your walls are covered in blue scribbles.”
“Uh … sure.”
“So, what can I help you with?” he asks. His voice is deep and pleasant.
“I think I might have the wrong number,” I hedge. This certainly doesn’t sound like someone who’d be in charge of a group about grief. “I’m looking for the person in charge of … of Group,” I whisper the word like it’s something dirty.
The man chuckles. “You got the right number. I’m Ryder, and I’m the head of the group. We have a meeting tomorrow if you want to join?” he suggests.
I bite my lip, thinking it over. I know if I don’t go tomorrow I never will. “Yeah, I’ll be there,” I say. “Where do you meet?”
“We meet at the high school in the gym. Do you know where that is?”
I nod and then realize he can’t see me. “Yes,” I say.
“Cool, we’ll see you there …” he pauses, waiting for my name.
“Blaire. I’m
Blaire.” I clear my throat awkwardly.
“See you tomorrow, Blaire. Bye.”
“Bye.” The phone clicks off, and I stare down at the screen. I know this is what’s best for me. What’s right. But I’m scared. I’m learning that I’m scared a lot lately. It’s not something I’m used to, and I don’t like it.
I park outside the double door entrance to the school’s gymnasium. I’d had to call Ryder back to get the time to meet—he’d apologized profusely for the slipup, but I promised him it was okay. There are a few other cars here, but otherwise the lot is empty. It’s seven in the evening and already pitch-black out. I hate that about the winter.
I turn the car off but make no move to get out. I know I need to. The group is starting any minute. But I need a moment to gather myself.
I lean my head against the back of the seat and close my eyes. I startle a moment later when someone knocks on the glass, screaming and jumping straight up in my seat.
The guy raises his hands innocently. He looks to be around thirty years old with thick black hair and almond-shaped eyes hidden behind a pair of glasses. He’s wearing a gray sweater with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. How is he not freezing?
He motions for me to roll down the window, but since I turned the car off, I can’t. I’m not afraid of him—there’s nothing scary about him—so I step out of the car.
“I’m Ryder,” he says, holding out a hand. “I’m going to assume you’re Blaire?”
I nod, my dark hair blowing around my face when I put my hand in his. His hand is warm despite the cold air.
“I usually check the lot for first-timers.” He shrugs, and we head toward the building, out of the cold. “I’ve been leading Group for a year now, and I’ve learned that people tend to hide in their car the first time they come. I know I did my first time.”
My eyes widen in surprise. “You’ve lost someone?”
“Yes—” he chuckles “—why else would I be leading Group?” He opens the door for me and waves me inside.
I step into the warmth of the school, and the door clicks shut behind us. “I don’t know.” I lift my shoulders. “I guess I figured you were a therapist or something. You’re not?”
Bring Me Back Page 10
