Page 47

If I can roll out of bed and have the strength to tuck the sheets in and fluff the pillows, the day will be okay.That’s what I’d tell myself over and over again when Jace first died. Sometimes it’s true. All you need to do is make your bed and somehow the day is possible. As if simply pulling the sheets tight and smoothing out all the wrinkles is enough to hide the past and put the daily routine into motion.
Some days, it’s all a lie.
All the time I spent with Mason … all that time feels like a lie. Some fantasy I forced to convince myself that life could be okay again. That it could somehow mend itself.
I take a sip of the tea, but it only makes my throat feel more parched. Instead of gulping it down like I’ve been doing, it finds its place on the saucer and I press my palms against my sore eyes.
It’s been so long since I’ve felt this empty. Since my heart has felt as though it’s been torn open.
It doesn’t make sense in the least. I was over him. I was making progress. True progress in healing by being okay with Jace being gone.
I was okay.
For the first time since his death, I felt like I had a reason to be happy. More importantly, like it was okay to be happy.
Glancing over my shoulder, I rub my tired eyes with the sleeve of my silk blouse. I thought I heard someone. Just for a second, I thought I heard someone behind me.
My first thought is Mason. That he’s come back and he isn’t taking no for an answer. I roll my eyes feeling my heart squeeze violently in my chest.
I can’t make that situation more than what it was. A hookup, a fuck buddy, I don’t have a clue. I know what it is now, though. It’s over.
Settling back down in the iron chair, I snatch up my notepad. I haven’t written like this in so long, but there are scribbles everywhere. It’s all loose poetry, lazy I suppose. It tells the story of how Jace and I met when we were young. How we fit so well together and everyone told us we were meant to be.
My eyes close as I remember the day we first got together. I can still hear how the school bells went off as we walked on the sidewalk to get to class. I brushed my knuckles against his, waiting and hoping. It had to have been obvious to him. Maybe I was the one to make the first move, but he chose me. He threaded his fingers through mine and he didn’t let go. He was a good man, not a perfect man. He was good to me. Or so I thought.
“I hate this.” I utter the words beneath my breath and it comes out shaky. They say when someone dies, you remember the good times more than the bad. Rose-colored glasses or something like that. I have to keep reminding myself that there were bad times too. With all these articles, I’m not having a difficult time remembering.
There’s guilt too, which is something that I don’t want. I don’t want to be angry at someone who will never again have the chance to defend himself.
How can I move forward when I’m too busy hating everything as I scribble down scenes of our fights in thisnotepad? I let the words flow and poured out all of it, but mostly his infidelity.
Creak. The creak of the floorboards behind me sends chills sweeping down my body. I stand abruptly from the chair and the iron scrapes on the balcony.
Every emotion that’s made me a wreck washes away, quickly cleansed by fear. I turn slowly, my mouth parted but words refuse to come out.
I don’t have the strength or courage to ask who’s behind me.
But I don’t have to.
I let out a breath as a bushy tail comes into view.
“Boots,” I say, greeting the neighbor’s tabby cat and add, “You scared me,” with my hand over my heart.
She must’ve snuck in while the balcony door was open and I was busy mulling over my wretched married life. There’s an archway between my house and the neighbor’s, and Boots used to be a regular on this balcony. Taking a few steps inside the bedroom, I scoop up the small cat. Her fur is soft and she purrs with contentment the moment I pet her. I only have a moment, though. She gets fed up with attention quickly and I’ve been on the wrong end of her claws before.
“You know you’re not supposed to be in here,” I scold her. Suddenly feeling exhausted, my conviction wanes. I escort Boots back outside, setting her down and move to shut the door just as my phone rings behind me on the bed.
The balcony is at the end of the bedroom so I have to walk quickly to answer in time, but I do on the last ring.
“Hello?”
“Jules, how are you?” Kat’s voice asks. “I was just calling to check in.”
“A mess,” I say and my throat is tight. Is this what a breakup feels like? Or is this what regret feels like? I’m not sure which is which anymore. I supposed the two are one and the same.
“God, I know … it has to be rough.” I nod my head but my lips are pressed into a thin line without any words wanting to come and contribute to the conversation.
“Do you want to talk about it?”