Just Let Go
Alessandra Thomas
Sixpence Publishing
Contents
1. Natalia
2. Ethan
3. Natalia
4. Ethan
5. Natalia
6. Ethan
7. Natalia
8. Ethan
9. Natalia
10. Ethan
11. Natalia
12. Ethan
13. Natalia
14. Ethan
15. Natalia
16. Ethan
17. Natalia
18. Ethan
19. Natalia
20. Ethan
21. Natalia
22. Ethan
23. Natalia
24. Natalia
25. Ethan
26. Natalia
27. Ethan
28. Natalia
29. Ethan
30. Natalia
31. Ethan
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Alessandra Thomas
Chapter 1
Natalia
My sister-in-law may have been able to convince me to go to the support group, but she couldn't make me participate.
Amalia had cornered me this past weekend, at a Sunday dinner she’d haphazardly pulled together in honor of me visiting. To be fair, I'd just blown up at Sebastian for rolling the tamales the wrong way and stalked off to the kitchen.
He had done a really shitty job of rolling them but, even as I screamed at him, I knew that wasn't what I was really upset about.
It was that I missed Mamá, the only person who had ever rolled the tamales right. It was that I was really hungry, and I only wanted tamales, and I was pretty sure I would never have tamales that tasted like Mamá's ever again.
There were a lot of things that would be different now that Mamá was dead. Tamales were the least of my concerns. But that was what finally, three months after her funeral, made me scream at Sebastian, pound my fist on the table and make my 10-year-old niece cry.
That, in turn, had made me cry, which had made me storm over to the gym and punch the bags without gloves until my knuckles bled. It didn’t take long. Three days later, here I was at the Chestnut Street YMCA, sitting in a cold metal folding chair, my arms crossed, staring at my cross-trainers and scowling.
Three months later, I still struggled with a love-hate relationship with these cross-trainers. On the one hand, running was the only thing that brought me respite from constant thoughts about what I could have done differently that day. On the other, if I hadn't insisted on running that day, Mamá might still be alive.
As if she could read my mind, the group leader piped in, "So, now that introductions are out of the way, I wanted to introduce tonight's topic - guilt, and how to cope. Guilt can manifest in several different ways after a loss, and I wanted to open this space up to share our experiences of that."
"I think there's the guilt of having a less-than-great relationship before he passed away," one sniffly middle-aged woman said. "We had disagreements over so many things... politics, how to raise the kids. We never said anything nasty to each other, but..." Then she trailed off as she dissolved into tears.
My arms crossed even tighter over my waist. Politics. Fighting over politics seemed almost as stupid to me as fighting over tamales.
"For me, it's over selling his things," another middle-aged man piped up. "Going through every single hand-made fishing lure and realizing I wouldn't be able to keep what he'd spent hours working on."
"Exactly," someone sitting right next to me said. "A year after my great-aunt passed, I finally unpacked some boxes she had in storage. I found dozens of half-finished teddy bears she was crocheting for the Philly children's intensive care unit. I tried to figure out how to finish them, but I was all thumbs. I mean. Have you ever tried to crochet?" A few people chuckled. I gritted my teeth and cracked the knuckles of my index fingers. I wanted to tell her that she could just buy some fucking teddy bears. It wasn't the same as watching your father slowly implode on himself now that your mother had left a hole in the family, and being able to do nothing about it.
A guy directly behind me cleared his throat after the laughter had died down a bit. "For me, it's knowing that I was all she had, and a year before she died, I left her to go to college." He cleared his throat again, and though I still wasn't looking up, I heard him change positions in his chair, shoving his feet underneath the foldable metal, shifting his body with a sigh. He cleared his throat again. "We, uh, didn’t have any other family. It was just her and me, my whole life. She was all alone. She mentioned she had a really bad chest cold, you know, was having trouble taking deep breaths. Said she was thinking about going to urgent care, but I was coming in to visit the next day, and I said I’d take her to the doctor. She went in anyway. It wasn’t like her – she must have been feeling really bad. She, uh… she had a stroke on the drive there. Wrapped her car around a light pole.” His voice broke on the last word, and when it did, it was like it cracked something inside me. Suddenly, I wanted to spill. Everything.
"Mamá was perfectly healthy," I said, surprised at how low and soft my voice came out. There was nothing soft about me. Not ever. “She just hated driving in the bad weather. She’d wanted me to drive her to the market. We’d just had freezing rain, but she’d promised my brother’s boyfriend his favorites – tamales – and she insisted on having the husks from the specialty place. My dad was working, and my brothers were busy too. I wanted to meet a friend at the gym first. I told her to relax, and if she still felt bad after my workout, I’d take her.” I swallowed, hard. The group leader stayed quiet, giving me a little nod, encouraging me to go on. And it worked.
“When I came home from the gym, she was sitting there in her favorite chair. So peaceful. She just looked like she was asleep. But, ah…” My throat was painful and tight, but I was determined to finish what I’d started. “It was two days before Christmas. Turns out, she hadn’t been perfectly healthy. I think she was holding on so that she could see me, you know. When I came home for break. "
This was the part I hadn't said out loud. Not to anyone, let alone a room full of people. But it would be stupid to stop now, probably. "She didn't tell me about the cancer, because she didn't want me to change my plans. I was always away from home.” As I said the words, I was transported back to that gray, icy afternoon. There was nobody and nothing except me and Mamá, the room somehow chilled by the loss of her soul in her ruined body. Everyone else’s afternoon was going on exactly as they’d expected it to, and there I’d been, hopelessly trying to rouse my mother, feeling my entire world shift seismically beneath my knees where they dug into the shag.
The entire room was silent for several agonizing seconds. Then, the group leader, Maisie or Millie or something, took a long breath in through her nose. “Thank you for sharing that story. Both of you. Thanks to all of you." She rushed to add that last part.
"It can be helpful," she continued, "to connect with others whose experiences of guilt are similar to your own. I encourage you to do that. Meet outside of this group, or exchange numbers. Lots of people even find comfort in texting, since that's something you can do at odd times."
Thank God. It was over. I'd promised Amalia I'd come to one support group, and I had. Not only that, but I made it through the whole thing.
Here was the thing - I'd known when she first suggested it that I would hate this shit. Who really wants to talk about all the details of their heart being ripped out from different angles, week after week? Not me. Not when it was still so fresh, so raw, so devastating. Not just to me, but to our entire family. And now with the state Papá was in...
I planted my love-hate trainers on the ground and shrugged out o
f the flowy sweatshirt I'd brought with me. Early March in Philadelphia meant that sitting still would make goosebumps crop up on my arms, but I'd break a sweat jogging within a couple minutes.
I'd almost made it to the door when the throat-clearer did it again, this time right behind me. I froze.
"So, I don't know if you'd be up for it, but I thought I'd ask anyway. Wanna exchange numbers?"
I should have thrown a short response over my shoulder at him, reached for the door handle, and kept going right out of there. But I didn't. Instead, something in his voice sent electricity skittering down my neck and over my shoulders. I stopped and turned, and when I looked up into his eyes, it was like someone had punched me in the gut. The last time I'd looked into those eyes, I was on the edge of the best orgasm I'd ever had.
"Ethan?" I stammered. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Chapter 2
Ethan
Holy. Shit.
Emotions cross-fired through my brain, making it impossible to process a single thought. I'd been coming to this bi-weekly grief support group on and off for almost seven years, ever since Mom died and the desolate feelings threatened to drown me. I hadn’t ever seen someone I knew here.
I'd never once imagined I'd see the only woman I'd never been able to get out of my head.
I lightly brushed her elbow with my fingertips, fought the urge to grab her upper arm, spin her toward me, and crush her to my chest. God, I'd remembered what it felt like to have her pressed up against me, wearing far fewer clothes than we were now, far too often for my own good. "Outside," I murmured.
Her mouth hung slightly open, but she obeyed.
In the stretch of sidewalk between the Chestnut St YMCA and McDonald’s, the cold March wind howled. It was her, of that I was certain. I wouldn't ever forget that soft caramel skin, those lush lashes that curved up to frame her impossibly dark, sparkling eyes. Natalia shivered, clutching her thin sweatshirt to her body so that it stretched over her muscled shoulders.
"Natalia." Her name barely caught purchase on the heavy breath coming from my chest, like it was amorphous, like it could blow away with the wind at any moment. "Natalia, I had no idea."
She raised her eyes to mine, and the strength and fire of her personality sparkled in the trace of tears there.
"Ethan," she breathed, swallowing hard. I remembered watching her throat move when she spoke, when she moaned. These two parts of my past - Mom's death and the most intense week-and-a-half I'd ever had with a woman - were strangely, inextricably intertwining before my eyes.
She nodded, casting her eyes down to her cross trainers. Same brand, same color. Brand new pair. I used to tease her about what would happen when they stopped making them, in the haze of an afterglow or the delicious anticipation that charged the air when she first stepped into my place. "Three months ago," she clarified. "Few days before Christmas. There was nothing anyone could do. Nobody could have known."
It was obvious, even as she said the words, that she didn't believe them.
"Your birthday," I said.
"No," she said, finally giving me a soft smile. "My birthday is Christmas Eve. Remember?"
I laughed. "Now I do. Ten days wasn't exactly enough to get to know each other that well, I guess."
"Please," she said. "I've had boyfriends who didn't even remember which month my birthday is in after we'd been dating for much longer than that.”
I chuckled, but it soon petered out into an awkward silence. The wind howled gently, and Natalia shivered again. "Walk?" I suggested, and she nodded.
"This way," she said, touching her fingertips to my elbow to guide me down the sidewalk from the YMCA entrance.
"What was that about in there?" she asked. "Why did we come outside to talk? Not that I mind, it's just..."
"Instinct, I guess," I said. "I've been in that group long enough to know that Maisie will discourage people who know each other from a different walk of life from attending the same group."
"And you wanted to see me again," Natalia said. Not a question, but not a confident statement, either. “After today.”
"After we both spilled our guts about our dead mothers? Can you blame me for not wanting those to be the last words that we say in each others' presence?" The truth was that I never thought I'd talk to Natalia again.
Natalia was a captivating woman. Some part of that, I was sure, was contained in her penchant for drama. I'd met her last winter and we'd fallen into bed right away. I was smitten within days. She didn't seem unhappy to be around me, either. But she had plans - insane, life threatening, terrifying plans that not only threatened to make me hyperventilate from envisioning her dying all sorts of ways, but that also would take her far away from Philly.
After a few hours of sad consideration, we made the mutual decision to cut ties. She made a big deal out of erasing our numbers from each other’s phones. She reminded me that not even her brothers would have her number in Pamplona, and the Alps, and wherever else she was planning to put her own life at risk for the next several months, and that this would be for the best. A clean break.
Except, at least for me, it wasn't that simple. I hadn't been able to stop thinking about her, and now, here she was. With a red nose, the same brand and style of cross-trainers, wind-swept thick dark brown waves, full lips and round eyes, all as beautiful as ever.
"I had no idea," I repeated after I realized she'd been silent for several long seconds. "I'm sorry."
"I didn’t know about your mother, either. You never told me how she died. Just that she was gone. And I guess I never asked, because..."
"I know. It wasn't serious between us."
"No, but it was fun. It wasn’t serious, but it felt like… I don’t know. More than just passing the time. I'm glad to see you," Natalia said. In the short time we'd spent together, I'd discovered that was one of her hidden talents - anticipating what people needed to hear, and filling that need with a few short, perfect words. "Ha! Look at that," Natalia laughed, looking up. At first, I thought she was talking about the freak snowflakes that had begun to fall, swirling through the sky. But then I realized we were standing in front of The Knockout Brothers – her family’s gym. I knew there was a small apartment on the top floor. That must be where she was staying. “We’re all the way back already.” The conversational sentence was soft, wistful-sounding on her lips.
I threaded my fingers together, quickly pulling them apart and rubbing my palms together to hide my nervous gesture. "So, what’ll it be? You’re not going to turn all this down, are you?” I twisted my shoulders and raised an eyebrow, like I might do if I was in a modeling shoot. My cocky act had never failed to make her laugh, and tonight was no different.
"Come up with me?" she asked, her eyes still sparkling from the laughter I’d caused. She bit her lip and looked down at her shoes again. She bounced on her toes, an adorable nervous habit that soothed her runner's twitchiness.. My head spun. “I thought you’d never ask.” Ten minutes back in Natalia Ortiz's orbit had set me off course. I just wanted to be with her again. There was no point denying it.
No, this wasn't a romantic encounter, per se. But the snowflakes were swirling in the gentle late winter breeze now, fat and beautiful. It was like we were figurines in a snow globe. It was almost perfect, except for one thing. Snow globes didn't feature couples stupidly staring at each other. So I reached down, pushing my freezing fingers into her thick mane, biting back a groan at having them buried there again, after so long. Then I leaned down and devoured her mouth with mine.
Chapter 3
Natalia
I was staying in the small studio above The Knockout, what the Ortiz family all referred to as "the hotel." Mamá had loved guests. Some of my earliest memories were of Mamá making lists of who was coming for a holiday dinner and standing in the middle of our small living room, silently mapping out a seating plan. My brothers would haul folding tables out of the basement and I would set the tables with plastic plates painted to look
like china, and our little North Philly four-bedroom, which could barely hold the seven of us on a normal day, suddenly held thirty or more people for dinner. Christmas Eve lunch meant that you had to suck in your stomach and move stealthily if you wanted to make it between Aunt Claribel and the Christmas tree without causing a catastrophe.
After my four brothers had all left home, Mamá and Papá had sat me down, saying they wanted to downsize. It would allow them to put more money in the gym. We moved into a two-bedroom a block away from the gym, but that didn’t stop Mamá from her urge to host. There was a small studio space above The Knockout, and within a couple months, Mamá had polished it up, added some simple furniture, and begun to urge my brothers to stay there. For three weeks after Mariana was born, my brother and his wife stayed in that little studio while Mamá waited on them hand and foot.
I couldn't remember a time when she'd been happier.
My stay in The Knockout Brothers hotel this time around coincided with a four-day break in my traveling. Amalia had warned me that the gray cable-knit afghan Mamá had made still covered the bed there. I'd been careful not to let my tears be heard over the phone.
The air between Ethan and me was tight and thin as we walked around the corner, down half a block, and up the stairs to the hotel.
"You living above the gym?" Ethan asked, his voice betraying how hard he was trying to sound casual.
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