Page 26 of My Sweetest Agony

THE NEXT DAY

He’s been here.

I know it the moment I step into the house.

That leather, citrusy, summer breeze scent permeates the air, hitting me the moment I nudge the door closed behind me. And for some reason, I inhale it deeply, taking it in and holding it in my lungs. My body relaxes, all the tension of the day melting away. Because the house seems less empty, less lifeless—the way it has felt since Drew died.

I pause for a moment and listen for any signs that he might still be here, holding my breath for one heartbeat. Two. But his bike isn’t parked out front. And there isn’t any sound or light coming from the open office door.

The air I’ve been holding in rushes from my lungs as my shoulders deflate with the realization that I’m alone again.

Deep down—in a place I’m not ready to examine—I had hoped he would be here today. Hoped I wouldn’t come home to this quiet loneliness. Hoped that maybe Cam would give me some more stories, open up about their rift, and help me understand what really went down.

So much for wishful thinking…

I set my purse on the counter and find a note, written in almost the same scratchy scrawl his brother had resting in the center of the granite.

I replaced your porch light. I also left something for you in the office.

And in the fridge.

Please eat.

Please eat?

His words from yesterday come back.

“You need that, to laugh, to sleep. And to eat.”

The worry in his voice then still echoes through me now, sending a little shiver across my skin.

Because it’s all true.

I forgot what it felt like to laugh. I forgot what it felt like to have a good night’s sleep and wake up content. And I haven’t enjoyed a meal since that final night I ate with Drew…

“Just take care of yourself.”

As if it’s that easy…

I definitely haven’t been. It’s hard enough to get out of bed, to breathe, to keep going when everything I lost sits on the mantle, reminding me daily of what should have been.

Nancy and Marlo have both expressed their concern, the same way Cam did, but he’s the first complete stranger who saw it and seemed to understand. The only one who offered any form of relief simply by being here and telling me a few stories.

“Drew wouldn’t want to see you like this.”

He’s right about that.

And apparently, he tried to do something about it.

I move toward the fridge and tug it open. Takeout containers sit piled on one of the shelves, and I reach in and remove them, checking to see what’s inside.

“Oh, my God. Dante & Luigi’s? How did he?—”

My eyes dart around the kitchen for anything that may have alerted him to my favorite restaurant and usual order, which I’m currently staring down at—eggplant parmesan, with a side of baked rigatoni.

But there isn’t a menu clipped to the fridge with a magnet.

No leftovers he could have seen since I haven’t been able to bring myself to order anything I knew I wouldn’t eat the past month.