Pack Up the Moon

by Kristan Higgins

  All the more reason to follow Lauren’s instructions.

  Josh looked at his watch. Six o’clock on a Friday night. Normal people would have plans. He’d had dinner with his mother a few days ago, had gone to Jen’s last night and got to read Sebastian a bedtime story. Octavia was talking a little bit—mama, dada, cup—and Jen had tried to get her to say Josh, but she just tucked her head against Jen’s neck and smiled sweetly. Both kids had pictures in their rooms of Lauren holding them. Josh couldn’t look at those for more than a glancing second, though (the denial bit, probably).

  He read her letter again, almost able to smell the salty Cape air, see the achingly blue sky. Maybe he should go there; he had rented the house again for this summer back in January, thinking they’d have longer. Wanting Lauren to have another spring and summer by the sea. If he rented it again, she’d have to live longer, too, right?

  Hello, bargaining.

  He should let someone else use that house. It was a shame to have it empty. Immediately, he felt guilty that this hadn’t occurred to him yet. He texted Asmaa and offered it to her and her fiancé, and asked her to find some Hope Center families who’d like to use it.

  The memory of that deck, the sound of the ocean, the seagulls, his wife’s laughter . . . Longing, strong enough to make him shudder, hit him like a wave.

  Pebbles put her head on his knee. “I have to go to the mall,” he said. It felt like he’d be journeying to hell.

  An hour later, he was proven right. The mall was hell. Teenagers, families, people rushing . . . the place was mobbed. He was jostled, carried along by throngs of consumers, jammed by the great unwashed.

  Didn’t children have bedtimes anymore? Didn’t people want to be outside on this beautiful May night?

  “Would you like to try this amazing anti-aging cream?” asked a man, leaping out from a kiosk with a sample in his hand.

  “I’m thirty years old,” Josh said.

  “Never too soon to start! Maybe bring some home to your wife?”

  Josh jolted to a stop. “My wife?”

  The man pointed at his left hand. “Or husband. Sorry.”

  Ah. Yes, he still wore his wedding ring. He kept going without answering the man, got stuck behind a cluster of girls all talking loudly in clichéd phrases.

  “OMG, I stan him!”

  “Yeah, no thanks!”

  “She’s the GOAT!”

  They jolted to a halt outside a cheap-looking clothing store, and he almost ran into them. “Excuse me,” he hissed, walking around them, inexplicably furious.

  “Super sorry, mister!” one of them yelled, and they all cackled.

  “What his problem?”

  “Okay, boomer!”

  Jesus Christ. He was not a boomer. He pictured tossing them to the side like the Incredible Hulk, flinging them out of his way. Then, because Lauren wouldn’t have approved—in fact, Lauren had probably been like these girls, hair-stroking and in love with herself—he pictured them simply in jail instead. Still too mean. Fine. In a room without internet, makeup or hair products.

  Speaking of hair, up ahead was a place called Tanglzz. Such a Rhode Island name. His mother had told him he needed a haircut and had offered to do it—he hadn’t had one since Lauren died, and it was shaggy—but given the bowl haircuts he’d sported as a child, he passed.

  “Do you take walk-ins?” he asked the woman behind the counter.

  “Sure do!” said the receptionist, and a minute later, Josh was sitting in a chair, a woman with pink highlights washing his hair. “Where are you from?” she asked.

  “Providence.”

  “Awesome!” she crowed, as if staying in his home city were award-worthy. “I’m Britney, by the way,” she said, squirting something new onto his head. Yes. Her nametag told him that. “My parents named me after Britney Spears, right?”

  Thus cursing her. “That’s nice.”

  “What’s your name, hon?”

  “James.” He’d pay in cash. Telling her his name felt too personal.

  “Oh, my God! I got a cousin named James. Jimmy, we call him. He’s in jail right now? But he’s not so bad.” She scrubbed his scalp with her fingertips.

  Aside from sympathy hugs, Britney was the first woman to touch him since Lauren died. He felt nothing. Ostensibly, the warm water and brisk shampoo should’ve been pleasant. Instead, it was just something to be endured.

  “Have you ever been to California?” Britney asked for no apparent reason.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s wicked awesome. California’s the best.” She didn’t ask which parts of California he’d been to, but apparently anywhere in California was good enough. “Me, I’ve never traveled much. I went to see my aunt in Pennsylvania once? It was wicked boring. Like, kind of a city? But not really? All these cornfields and antique stores. My aunt? She’s only eight years older than I am? So I’m like, ‘Girl, where do you pahty?’”

  Her voice chattered on, requiring nothing from Josh. She asked what kind of haircut he wanted, and he said “short” so he wouldn’t have to do this again soon, and after fifteen or twenty or a thousand minutes, she was done, brushing off the back of his neck.

  “There! You’re wicked gorgeous now, James.” She smiled and squeezed his arm, and he felt bad for disliking her. Left her a twenty for a tip, even though the haircut only cost twelve dollars.

  He was weary, but he wanted to do what his wife had told him to do. Still wanting to make her happy.

  It had been his life’s work, after all.

  He walked aimlessly through the mall, past chain jewelry stores and women’s lingerie shops and kiosks selling hair extensions and sparkly jewelry, past the crappy food places that sold hot pretzels and ice cream, until he came to a store with men’s clothing in the window. More teenage girls, maybe the coven he’d passed earlier, cruised around him. Two of them walked with their arms linked.

  Lauren and Sarah had done that sometimes. Maybe they’d been to this very same mall as teenagers, and been much the same as these girls, chattering, self-involved, too confident in their beauty. After all, that’s how he’d viewed Lauren the first time he met her. A shallow twit.

  Imagine that. The love of his life, the woman he’d married, and he’d given up, what . . . six years with her? No. Almost seven. The thought nearly felled him. If he hadn’t been a condescending prick at that party, they might have had seven more years.

  His heart was racing. He could’ve had almost a decade more with her.

  “Hello and welcome,” came a voice. “Are you looking for anything in particular tonight?”

  Oh. He’d gone in, apparently. “I need some clothes,” he said, and his voice sounded strange.

  “Great!” the man said. He was young and well dressed, his hair in a perfect swoop off his forehead. “My name’s Radley. And you are?”

  “Joshua.”

  “What are you looking for, Joshua?”

  He had no idea how to answer the question. “Just . . . everything, I guess.”

  The answer caused Radley to brighten. “No problem! What size do you usually take? Do you have colors that you like? This is quite . . . cheerful.” He gestured at Josh’s shirt, which was, he just realized, a shirt Mrs. Kim had bought him in Korea the last time she went—garish red-and-yellow swirls. Cargo pants. Birkenstock sandals with socks.

  He probably should’ve looked in the mirror before leaving the house.

  Somewhere, Lauren was laughing. It almost made him smile.

  “Whatever you think,” Josh said. “I don’t have the best taste in clothes.”

  “Thank God you said that so I didn’t have to pretend.” Radley grinned. “Okay, let’s get started.” He began plucking things off the racks, a few shirts here, pants there, jeans, a sweater, more pants, another shirt. Josh trailed behind him, agreeing with e
verything, seeing nothing.

  Seven extra years. He could’ve been with Lauren for seven extra years, but he’d been a complete and utter asshole.

  “These pants are really on trend,” the guy was saying. “You can cuff them to be extra hipster, if you must. See the pretty print underneath? Or just leave as is for a more conservative look. I’d French-tuck this shirt, maybe add a vest or a grandpa sweater. This hat would make it supercute for date night. Here, why don’t you start trying things on, and I’ll grab whatever else I think you might like.” He hung up a dozen articles of clothing in a dressing room, looking pleased, then went back to the racks for more.

  Josh closed the dressing room door behind him and looked at the mirror. Lauren had coached him in dressing once they’d been dating a little while, but he’d reverted to his old clothes since her death. They predated her, and somehow it was easier to wear things that weren’t attached to her memory.

  He really did look like a dork.

  He pulled on a pair of cotton pants in a shade of orange—coral, Lauren would’ve said—a blue T-shirt, a blue-and-yellow-printed button-down.

  “I grabbed you a pair of shoes just in case you want to see yourself without those, uh . . . atrocities.” Radley slid some brown loafers under the closed door.

  Josh put the shoes on. Looked in the mirror.

  With his haircut, and the undeniably modern outfit, he looked different. He didn’t look like the hermit genius workaholic with no life, as he used to be, or the stunned-stupid mouth-breathing widower he’d become.

  He looked . . . he looked like the guy who’d married Lauren Carlisle. He looked like her husband again.

  The pain hit him in the stomach, and he bent over. A keening sound came out of his mouth, and he tried to cover it. Tears rained out of his eyes without warning, and his chest was crushed by the grief.

  He could’ve had years more with her.

  “Joshua? Joshua? Are you okay?” came the salesperson’s voice. The door handle jiggled.

  The mirror showed his face, wet from tears, creased in agony, scared, hopeless. How was he supposed to live without her for the rest of his life? His knees gave out, and he sank to the floor, clamping his arms over his head.

  The door opened, and Radley stood there, a key in his hand. “Oh, God, you are so not okay. What can I do? Should I call 911?”

  “My . . . my . . .” He could barely choke the words out. “My wife . . . died.”

  “Holy Mary. Oh, man, that sucks.” Radley sat on the little bench and put his hand on Josh’s shoulder. “How horrible.”

  It was so embarrassing, crying here, almost funny if it weren’t so utterly, wretchedly awful. He was full-on sobbing now, his arm across his face, tears soaking into the unpurchased shirt. He didn’t want to look like Lauren’s husband. He wasn’t anymore. He had no right to look like Lauren’s husband. He didn’t deserve to, not when he’d failed her. Not when he’d given up seven years with her.

  Don’t be a loser.

  Her voice was so clear his head jerked up to see if she was there.

  Of course she wasn’t. He choked on another sob, then another, this weird, hiccuping thing that he was powerless to stop. He was a loser. That was the problem.

  “Can I try this on?” asked a guy with an impressive beard, holding up a shirt.

  “Can’t you see he’s having a crisis?” the salesperson snapped. “Jesus! Some compassion, please? Come back tomorrow, and I’ll give you forty percent off.”

  “I’m sorry,” Josh managed.

  “Don’t apologize. Here.” Radley—Ripley?—got up and left the dressing room and returned a second later. He held a bandanna in one hand, a bottle of water in the other. “Wipe your face, you poor thing. I’ll lock up.”

  Josh felt a hundred years old. He hauled himself onto the bench and sighed. The hiccuping had stopped.

  Not cool, breaking down like this. Not cool at all. His hands were still shaking. His ribs hurt from crying. He wiped his eyes, blew his nose, drank some water, and when Radley came back, he was under control again, though his eyes were leaking still.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t see that coming.”

  “It’s totally fine,” Radley said. “How long has it been?”

  “Three months.”

  Radley nodded. “Listen. Do you want to get a drink or something? The mall closes in ten minutes.”

  “That’s . . . that’s really nice of you, but you don’t have to. You’ve been great.”

  “I know.” He smiled. “And I’m sure you have tons of friends to lean on, but sometimes a stranger is easier.”

  “Your hair is really cool,” Josh said. Why? Why say that? (But it was.)

  “It takes forever, but it’s worth it, right?” Radley said, waving his hand over his head. “Come on. Let’s go get a mangotini or a scotch or something. Really.”

  It beat going home to a lifeless apartment and grieving dog.

  “Okay,” Josh said. “I’ll take everything, by the way.”

  Radley’s eyes widened. “That’s, like . . . a ton of money. Don’t feel like you have to. I mean, you have to buy the bandanna, and that shirt, since you slimed all over it, but . . .”

  “No. I do need the clothes. Thank you.” He started to unbutton the printed shirt.

  “No! Stop. Wear those out of the store. Please. For everyone’s sake.” He glanced at the clothes still hanging in the dressing room. “Are you sure you want everything? Your wallet may scream.”

  “I can afford it. And it’s all nice stuff.”

  “How would you know?” Radley said, raising an eyebrow and grinning like a stylish elf. He pointed to Josh’s red-and-yellow polyester shirt. “I can burn that shirt for you in case you’re ever tempted to wear it again.”

  Josh almost smiled. “My friend got it for me in Korea.”

  “Does she hate you?” He smiled. “Did she also force you to wear those cargo shorts and those . . .” He paused to shudder. “Birkenstocks?”

  “No.” Lauren hated them, too. The smile was small, but it was real.

  “So maybe you should come here more often. Would you like to take out a Banana Republic card? You’ll get a discount.” He lowered his voice. “And I’ll get bonus points from my boss.”

  “Sure.”

  A few minutes later, they left the store and walked out toward the exit to the parking garages, past the mall-based restaurants, all of which had tables set up in the vast food court.

  “I can ride with you,” Radley said. “I’m car-free at the moment, and I promise I’m not a serial killer. I know a place where no one will bother us and the drinks are cheap. These places?” He gestured to a franchise Josh recognized from their late-night ads for two-pound burgers and bottomless barrels of fries. “I wouldn’t eat in one of these mall restaurants. First, I know we’d find a hair in our food. Second, it’s so noisy! How do people have conversations here?”

  As if on cue, there was a crash, and they both looked over. A female server had just dropped a full tray—plates and glasses, liquid and food were everywhere. A giant burger sat right on a man’s groin, with french fries littering his pants.

  “For fuck’s sake!” bellowed the male customer, who wore a T-shirt proclaiming his love of guns. He jolted out of his seat, towering over the waitress. The people around them fell silent.

  The waitress put her hands over her face, and for a second, Josh thought the angry man might hit her.

  “Hey!” Josh yelled. Redness flared at the edges of his vision. Never a good sign.

  “Are you that stupid that you can’t even carry a tray?” the gun lover yelled at her.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. Somehow, she looked familiar.

  “Does that help me? No, you stupid—”

  The red flared. “Leave her alone. It was an accident
,” Josh called. At least ten people whipped out their phones, sensing trouble. The gun lover turned toward him, his face florid now that he couldn’t eat his heart-attack-on-a-plate.

  “Food service and retail,” Radley murmured. “People treat us like we’re scum.”

  “Is this your problem?” the irate customer asked, coming toward them.

  Good. The red flared again. Bring it on, asshole. Josh hopped over the little fence that separated the food court tables from the rest of the mall. “I think it is,” he said.

  “And here comes the mall’s violent crime of the day,” Radley said. Josh barely heard him.

  “You mind your own business!” the asshole said. “You got something to say?”

  Contradictory statements, Josh thought. “It was an accident. Cut her some slack.” His voice was guttural. Another sign of a red-out. Good.

  “Why should I? She dumped food on me, the stupid slut.”

  Josh’s fists tightened.

  “You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Radley said.

  The man leaned in toward Radley, who didn’t flinch. “Watch your back, faggot. You see this shirt? You never know what I might be packing.”

  Then the man reached behind his back (to grab a gun?) and the red tar surged in Josh’s vision. Then his fist hurt, and his arm was extended, and the bully staggered back, crashing into a table and then landing on the floor in the puddle of drinks the waitress had spilled.

  The crowd started clapping. The man tried to get up, then slipped and fell back down. “My back!” he howled.

  Regrettable. Josh had been hoping for a fight. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The quick brown fox. That lazy-ass dog.

  The redness faded. Someone was talking to him. “Josh? Joshua? Are you okay?” It was his new friend. Radley.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You punched that guy.”

  “Yeah.” He definitely had. He looked at his recently abused knuckles, which were a fresh shade of red.