by Sydney Logan
I don’t.
On day five, while I’m sitting in class, I finally get the text I’ve been waiting for. Seven little words that aren’t unexpected, but break my heart just the same.
I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry.
On day six, fate intervenes, and I start my period.
“Could I have some more decaf?”
I nod numbly at the woman sitting at the end of the counter. Thank God my shift’s nearly over. I’ve forced a smile and been friendly for eight fun-filled hours, and I’m done. So done. Plus, it’s snowing, with more in the forecast tonight. Getting to campus will be loads of fun tomorrow morning.
“Thanks,” she says when I finish refilling her mug.
“Sure. Can I get you anything else?”
She shakes her head and sips her coffee. The woman looks vaguely familiar, but she’s definitely not a regular because I can’t place her.
“You look tired. Rough day?” she asks.
Fantastic. Not only do I feel like hell, but I must look like it, too.
“What’s that expression? Fake it ‘til you make it?”
I know I shouldn’t share my misery with customers, but I’m too tired to care. Besides, it’s late. The place is empty. It’s just me, Tony, and this sad woman at my counter.
“That’s what they say. I don’t know about you, but I am so tired of faking it.”
We share a smile, and there’s something about her smile that convinces me I’ve seen her before. She’s pretty, with her blonde bob and silver hoop earrings. Hanging from her neck is a chain with a tiny pink pendant. I notice it because it clashes with her charcoal suit.
“Do you like pink?”
She seems surprised. “Pink?”
“Your necklace.”
“Oh,” she whispers, letting her finger trail along the chain. “It’s funny. I used to hate pink. But now . . .”
Her face falls, and I feel terrible for asking.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
She shakes her head and sniffles quietly. “No, you’re fine. It’s just . . . it’s been a hard day. Every day is tough. I don’t know why today’s worse than others, but it is.”
The woman gazes at her mug and runs her finger along the rim. Her nails are uneven and the polish is chipped, which surprises me considering how impeccably she’s dressed.
“Isn’t it amazing how one moment can change your life forever? Something happens that can alter you so completely? There’s no time machine that can take you back, and I want to go back so much. I wish I could close my eyes, click my ruby slippers, and I could be back in my car, with my little girl . . .”
My body freezes. It can’t be.
“Anyway, the necklace was a Mother’s Day gift. Audrey loved pink. Anything that sparkled.”
It is.
Taking a deep breath, I carefully place the pot of coffee down on the counter.
Josh’s ex-wife is sitting in my diner.
“I’m so sorry,” she says quietly. “It’s not like you’re a bartender. I shouldn’t be drowning my sorrows here.”
Tears trickle down her cheeks. Good manners and southern hospitality compel me to offer her a napkin.
“Thanks,” Sloane says, patting her face. “Do you have children?”
I shake my head.
“I don’t know if all kids are like her, but Audrey hated her seatbelt. Hated it. Our rule was the car couldn’t start until she was buckled in, and she couldn’t unsnap it until the car was quiet. That was our rule.” Sloane’s eyes swim with tears as she stares off into space. “Audrey was so sneaky. She’d unbuckle it, and I’d have to pull over and snap it back. It was a game to her. It was just a game.”
Her sobs become uncontrollable.
So do mine.
I’m so glad the diner’s empty.
“That day, we were on the freeway coming home from the park, and like always, she unsnapped her seatbelt. There was an SUV in one lane and a semi in the other. Our car was sandwiched in the middle. I couldn’t pull over. I couldn’t! I begged her to buckle back up. I begged her.”
I wrap my arms around my middle and try to control my breathing. Why is she confessing to me? I’m not a shrink or priest. Why is she telling me all this?
“When I finally reached an exit, I turned down a one-way street . . . and that’s when she hit us head-on. High as a kite in the middle of the day. My baby . . . my little girl . . . she died right there.”
It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t her fault.
Sloane suddenly climbs off the stool and fumbles through her bag. She finds some cash and tosses it onto the counter.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbles through her tears. “You’re a total stranger. I have no idea why I told you all that.”
“It’s . . . okay. Really.”
“I’m sorry,” she says again. Her designer heels click against the tile as she rushes for the door.
“I’m sorry, too,” I whisper tearfully.
Because of the snow—and probably because he can tell I’m a basket case—Tony offers to drive me home.
“You’re off tomorrow, right?”
Tony makes the schedule, so of course he knows I am. He’s just trying to make conversation. While I appreciate the effort, I really wish he’d just drive. Traffic’s light, which is good, because the roads look awful.
“Yeah, I’m off tomorrow.”
“Good. I worry that I’m working you too hard . . . what with school and everything. You’re my best waitress, but maybe we need to shorten your shifts.”
“Tony, you can’t! I won’t be able to pay my rent if you cut my hours.”
“Calm down, kid. I know you need the money. I just worry about you.”
“You don’t worry about Amy.”
“That’s because Amy isn’t going to college full-time. And Amy has no problem telling me when she needs a day off. You’re more of the suffer-in-silence type.”
I appreciate his concern, but he has no idea that right now, my classes and the diner are the only things keeping me sane.
“I’ll tell you if it gets to be too much, okay?”
He pulls up to my apartment building, and I thank him for the ride home before heading inside. As I reach the top of the stairs, I stop in my tracks when I see Josh sitting on the floor outside my apartment door. I step closer, and his head jerks up.
He’s avoided me for a week, but now he’s making it impossible for me to avoid him? I don’t think so.
“Move.”
Josh quickly climbs to his feet, swaying a little as he tries to gain his balance. The look on his face is tortured and strained, and it’s obvious that he’s having a bad day, but I’m not feeling very charitable tonight.
“Are you drunk?”
He laughs bitterly. “I wish.”
“That makes two of us. Now move.”
“Carrie, please let me ex—”
“What? Explain? I don’t need you to explain, Josh. I get it. Now move.”
He steps aside, and I walk into my apartment, kicking my door shut behind me.
Josh knocks.
And knocks.
I fill Oreo’s bowl and take a shower.
I spend way too much time drying my hair.
When I return to the living room, he’s still knocking.
With a tired sigh, I walk slowly over to the door and glance through the peephole.
The knocking stops.
“I can hear you breathing, Carrie.”
I jump back.
“You should be proud of me,” he says. “I’m showing amazing restraint by not knocking down your door again. Frankly, I haven’t slept in days and just don’t have the strength.”
I slide down to the floor and rest my head against the door.
“Why are you here, Josh? You said you couldn’t do this anymore.”
“I know.”
It’s the strangest thing. We aren’t angry. We aren’t fighting. Our voices are soft and quiet. Mu
tual sounds of sorrowful acceptance and unbelievable hurt.
“Then why are you here, Josh?”
“Because I can’t stay away from you.”
“You need to try harder.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re gonna break my heart.”
“I don’t want to do that, Carrie.”
Too late.
“You need to go home, Josh.”
“Not until you let me explain.”
“I can’t let you in.”
“That’s fine. But will you listen?”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
“Okay.”
He’s quiet for a few moments. Gathering his courage? Trying to find the words? I have no idea. But then he starts to speak, and that’s when I start to cry.
“I had every intention of calling you after my first therapy session. I even had a plan. I was going to ask you out. Maybe take you to a movie. Have an actual date. That was my plan. But therapy was . . . very eye opening. My first session was an hour, and when time was up, the doctor asked why I made the appointment. I told him I was there because I’d lost my daughter. He then asked my daughter’s name. It seemed so strange that he needed to ask, considering I’d done nothing but talk for sixty minutes. But then he showed me his notes, and there was only one name on the legal pad. It was yours, Carrie. I’d done nothing but talk about you for the entire hour.”
I bow my head and try to wipe away my tears.
“Dr. Moore—he’s the shrink—then suggested sessions twice a week. I apparently need massive doses of counseling and antidepressants to deal with my grief. Or, as he puts it, my complete denial of my grief. I personally don’t think I’m denying anything, but that first session suggests otherwise, so . . .”
He sighs loudly, and it takes every ounce of my inner strength not to reach for the doorknob.
“Dr. Moore is concerned about my relationship with you,” Josh continues quietly. “How we met. The sex. My wild attraction to you. He started spewing some bullshit about how you’ve become an addiction, and until I deal with my grief, I can’t be what you need. He thinks I’m using you to relieve my pain. But, just like with alcohol or drugs, when the high is gone, the underlying pain is still there. And it’s deep, Carrie. So deep that I feel like I might drown. The only time I don’t feel like I’m drowning is when I’m with you.”
It makes so much sense. Wasn’t I doing the same thing? Instead of dealing with the pain of losing my dad, I moved to the city and started a whole new life. My drugs of choice are work and school. While both are productive, I’m still using them to avoid dealing with my own grief—the loss of my dad and my estranged relationship with Mom.
“I know it was unfair, sending you a text like that. But Dr. Moore thought—and still thinks—I need to keep my distance. He doesn’t think I’m even remotely ready to have a serious relationship, and as much as it kills me to say it, I think he’s right. I can’t be what you need. Not right now. And I’m sorry about that.”
With a weary sigh, I climb to my feet and reach for the lock on the door. When I open it, I’m not at all surprised to find Josh’s eyes filled with tears.
“Come in.”
As tempted as I am to reach for the bottle of cheap wine in my fridge, I make us some tea instead.
“Here you go.” I offer him a mug and sit down beside him. Oreo’s snuggled between us.
“Thanks. And thanks for letting me in.”
“No problem.” I curl my legs under me. “So, I have a question.”
“Shoot.”
“If Dr. Moore thinks this is such a bad idea, why are you here?”
“Because I owed you an explanation. A real one. Plus, Amy said she was going to slash my tires if I didn’t tell you something. She’s a very violent person. I hope my brother knows what he’s getting himself into.”
I grin. So Amy’s a true friend, after all.
“But mostly,” he says softly, “I’m here because I’m weak. I missed you. My feelings for you are genuine, Carrie, despite what my therapist thinks. It’s not the right time to dive head-first into a serious relationship, and I accept that. But what I feel for you . . .” his voice trails off as he tries to find the words. “What I feel for you scares the shit out of me, to be honest. I’ve never been an affectionate person. I’ve never been the type to send sappy texts or care so much about somebody that I’d literally break down a door. You’re important to me.”
“You’re important to me, too. But I can’t take the hot and cold. We can’t be making out on my couch one night and then you pull this disappearing act on me the very next day. My heart can’t take it. And I won’t take it. I understand you have stuff to work through. I just need you to be honest with me. If you need time, say that. If you need space, say that, too. But say something.”
Josh nods and takes my hand. “I will. I promise. Total honesty from now on.”
Speaking of honesty . . .
“Josh, I have to tell you something.”
His eyes grow wide. “If you tell me you’ve met someone else, I’m really going to need something stronger than tea.”
I laugh. “No, I haven’t met anyone. It’s good news, actually.”
“I’d love some good news.”
“I’m not pregnant.”
Josh frowns. “Oh.”
“I thought you should know.”
“Thank you for telling me.” He tries hard to disguise the disappointment in his voice, but I hear it, anyway. “That’s probably for the best, right?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
He grows quiet, giving me the opening I need to tell him about meeting his ex-wife. I’m just not sure tonight’s the night for that discussion.
“It’s late,” Josh says, glancing at his watch. “I should let you sleep.”
“Okay. I’ll walk you out.”
He gives Oreo one last scratch behind the ear before placing his mug on the end table. I follow him to the door. Before he leaves, he quickly turns toward me, his eyes full of fear.
“Can you forgive me?”
Unable to resist, I wrap my arms around him and press my cheek against his chest. Josh sighs softly and nuzzles the top of my head before pulling me close.
“I forgive you.”
“Good. I want to be better for you, Carrie.”
“Don’t be better for me. Be better for you. You just need time, Josh, and I get that. I’m not going anywhere. Just don’t shut me out, please.”
Josh smiles down at me. “And we’ll take things slow.”
“Super slow.”
His eyes flicker to my mouth. “Do you know how much I want to kiss you right now?”
“I’m not sure that would classify as slow.”
“Yeah, but we’ve already kissed.”
“We’ve already done a lot of things.”
He smirks. “We’re . . . friends. Friends kiss.”
“Friends don’t kiss like we do.”
Josh slides his nose against mine. “Please, Carrie . . .”
“Doctor’s orders,” I whisper.
With a heavy sigh, Josh nods and tells me goodnight.
Later, when I’m wide awake in bed with my cat curled at my feet, I think about what Josh’s therapist said.
Am I an addiction?
I don’t want to be Josh’s addiction. I’ve lived with addiction, and it’s devastating.
Growing up, my parents weren’t big drinkers. Dad would have a beer while watching a game and Mom had the occasional glass of wine, but otherwise, they rarely touched alcohol.
That all changed when my father died.
Not long after his funeral, my mother became the poster child for AA. In a matter of months, she drank away every penny we had.
Just like with alcohol or drugs, when the high is gone, the underlying pain is still there. And it’s deep, Carrie. So deep that I feel like I might drown.
Maybe that’s why Mom refused to put down the bottle.
>
You can’t hurt if you’re numb all the time.
As I drift off to sleep, I realize that Josh isn’t the only one who has work to do. I want to be better, too. Better for him. Better for me. Better for us.
And that means a trip home.
I don’t have a shift the next day, but I stop by the diner to request a few days off and to let Amy know why I wouldn’t be around. I find her in a back booth, finishing up her lunch break.
“Still mad at me?” she asks.
I slide into the booth. “A little.”
She nods and finishes the last of her sandwich. “I understand. You probably should be. In my defense, Jared asked me to stay out of it. He thought it was Josh’s story to tell, and I agreed with him. You needed to hear it from him.”
“I did. Josh came by last night.”
Amy arches an eyebrow. “He’s not supposed to do that.”
I shrug. I’m not going to sit here and talk about what Josh should or shouldn’t be doing. Like she said, it’s his story to tell.
“Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be out of town this weekend. I’m going to visit Mom for a few days.”
“Really? I thought you said you’d never go back.”
“Yeah, well, people say a lot of things and have to change their minds. This is something I need to do.”
She nods. “I get that. What can I do to help?”
“Tony said he’d schedule Daphne to pick up my shifts.”
“Daphne’s okay. She’s not you, but she’ll do.”
I grin. “I do have a favor, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Shoot.”
“Could you check on Oreo for me while I’m gone? Just make sure he has food and water. Maybe scratch him behind the ears a few times.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Do I have to clean his litter box?”
“Nope.”
“Then, yes, I’ll be happy to.”
“Thanks, Amy. I really appreciate it.”
“No problem. It actually relieves my guilt a little. I’m really sorry that I didn’t tell you more about Josh when he disappeared.”