To Say Goodbye

by Lindsay Detwiler

  “Seriously? Why would you do that?” Jackson asked as the whole family erupted once more in laughter.

  “I was five.”

  “Still. That’s ridiculous.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” Sophia scowled as she took another sip of wine. After they’d settled into dinner and endured the customary questions, her dad had decided to tell the story about Sophia getting her head stuck in the deck railing.

  “I think we might even have pictures,” Martha added, also grinning.

  “Okay, first, what kind of parents takes pictures of that? Weren’t you worried?” Sophia asked, still scowling.

  “Nah, it was nothing a little butter couldn’t fix.”

  Jackson shook his head, forking another bite of chicken as he laughed.

  “Trouble at five, huh?” he asked through a mouthful of food.

  She groaned. “Okay, change of conversation. How’s the trip to Paris coming along?”

  “Oh, that’s boring. Jackson doesn’t want to hear about that. He’d rather hear about you,” Martha said, winking at Jackson.

  “Well, I’d rather not unearth any more horror stories from my childhood.”

  The night continued, playful bantering and wine passed around. The mood was relaxed and easy. Sophia found herself enjoying the food, enjoying the company, and enjoying the sight of Jackson at the table with her parents.

  “So, Jackson, Sophia tells us you’re working at the restaurant in town?” Martha asked politely once the laughter settled down.

  “Yeah. I like it there.”

  “Quite a change from the army, huh?” her dad noted. There wasn’t a hint of judgment in his voice—it was just an observation.

  “Yeah,” Jackson said, nodding. “I just wanted something completely different, you know? I like being in the kitchen. I thought seriously about becoming a chef at one point before I headed to boot camp.”

  “You know, when I worked at the high school, I was pretty good friends with the culinary instructor at the Vo-tech,” Stuart added. “He actually went off to work at a pretty big restaurant in New York City. Maybe I could hook you up with his contact info sometime if you were ever interested in moving on.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll keep that in mind. But right now, I don’t have plans to go anywhere.” He smiled, eyeing Sophia strategically across the table, and her heart fluttered.

  Dinner came to an end, and before long, everyone was getting ready to head out.

  “Tonight was great. Thanks for including me,” Jackson murmured in her ear before reaching down to say goodbye to Henry, now fast asleep in front of the fireplace.

  “I’ll talk to you later,” she said, leading him to the door.

  Once he was gone, she turned around to say final goodbyes to her parents.

  “He’s a good bloke,” her dad said.

  “You just like him because he can talk cars with you,” Martha teased. Her dad shrugged.

  “Don’t you like him, Mom?” Sophia asked.

  “I do.”

  “But?”

  “But, honey, I just want you to be careful. That’s all. Don’t let your heart get ahead of itself.”

  “I won’t,” she promised as she said some more goodbyes and exchanged hugs. “I love you guys.”

  “We love you, too. It’s good to see you smile again So-So,” her dad said, making her roll her eyes at the sound of her childhood nickname.

  As she closed the door and headed to the couch to unwind, her mother’s words reverberated in her mind. She did her best to squash them, basking only in the thought of Jackson’s smile, his kiss, and his plans to stay in town.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  SOPHIA

  “Hey, stranger. Good to see you,” Stella teased when Sophia walked into the shop a few days later.

  Sophia managed a weak smile. “You, too.”

  “You’ve been so busy after work, I barely get to see you. Stud muffin soldier boy’s been keeping you busy.”

  “Sorry.” Sophia felt herself blush.

  “Hey, I’m not complaining. It’s good to see you feeling happier again.”

  “And it’s good to see Larry keeping you happy, too,” she said, heading to her station to plug in her equipment and get ready for the day.

  Stella tossed her a store-bought, prepackaged cinnamon roll, their go-to breakfast.

  “You know, we should probably start eating like thirtysomethings instead of twentysomethings,” Sophia teased as she ripped open the package.

  “A little curves never killed anyone,” Stella said, running her hands on her hips as she laughed.

  “You’re full of yourself today.”

  “Yeah. Larry and I had a pretty good night last night.” Stella gave her an overly dramatic wink, snickering at Sophia’s creeped-out face.

  Sophia winked back. “I won’t ask for details. I’m sure it was pretty steamy.”

  “You better believe it.” She stared at Sophia questioningly. Sophia stopped, mouth full of cinnamon roll.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What?”

  “Just wondering if your nights are getting steamier, too.” Stella busied herself at her styling station, organizing some bobby pins as if she hadn’t just asked an extremely personal question.

  “Stella! Seriously?”

  “Just saying. He’s pretty gorgeous. And completely into you. And you’re young, vivacious. What gives?”

  “I can’t believe I’m entertaining this discussion. Need I remind you...” She pointed to her wedding ring, still on her finger.

  “I know, I know. But you can’t keep it closed for business forever, you know.”

  “Okay, we’re done here,” Sophia joked, wiping her hands on her apron. “Next topic, please.”

  They chattered on about Larry’s facial hair, about Stella’s mom’s new boyfriend, about Henry, and about the latest action on their favorite soap opera. They carried on discussing anything and everything until the first customer arrived at nine.

  As Sophia busied herself with Mrs. Rally’s permanent wave, her mind started to wander.

  Stella’s question had really made her uncomfortable, made her squirm. It wasn’t, however, because she was a prude or because she didn’t talk to Stella about such things.

  It was because deep inside, she’d been thinking about Jackson’s sinewy body in ways she didn’t quite think were rated G.

  And she hated herself for it.

  _______________

  The movie played in her head, over and over. Jackson taking her in his arms, wrapping himself around her, tossing her on the bed...

  Then she jolted out of it. It wasn’t her bed.

  It was hers and Tim’s bed.

  She knew it was probably natural to be feeling... well... needy. It had been a long time. Jackson was sexy. Beyond sexy.

  But this was disturbing. She felt dirty and awful. How could she be thinking about this? How could she be thinking about another man’s body with everything that had happened?

  She certainly wasn’t ready for this. Just yesterday, she’d spent forty-five minutes bawling her eyes out because one of Tim’s favorite shirts fell to the floor of their closet and Henry had chewed the sleeve. She still had her moments of searing pain, of debilitating hurt that made it hard to breathe.

  It would creep up on her at strange times. In the grocery store, she would feel her chest tighten at the sight of the double stuffed Oreos, Tim’s favorite. She would feel it on the way home in the car, when a song would come on that he used to sing crazily to. She would feel it when she couldn’t manage to get the window open because it was jammed. She’d feel it when she went to laugh and to tell him about the crazy client who had come in today.

  She felt his absence in every minute of her life.

  Although the grief was tiresome, the relentless reel of their memories playing in her head drained her even more. The smallest incident, the tiniest trigger would set off a string of memories, of moments. The
y were moments of sheer happiness. She’d loved Tim, been crazy about him. He’d made her whole, made her Sophia.

  Without him, she still felt like only a part of her former self.

  Then came Jackson. He was kind and loving, understanding and empathetic. He was a straight shooter, never sugarcoating things. From the moment she heard him speak at the grave that day, she’d felt a connection to him. He understood her. He comforted her.

  He was someone she could see herself with.

  In truth, if she had met Jackson first, things might have been different. She could see herself falling for soldier Jackson, for pre-Chloe and pre-Tim Jackson.

  These thoughts, though, incited the endless cycle of guilt and grief. Because when she thought about Jackson, she instantly thought about Tim and what he would think. She felt like a cheater, even if her husband was gone. She felt awful about the whole situation. She wished she could just feel nothing at all.

  So after work, she did something she hadn’t done in a few weeks, perhaps out of avoidance, perhaps because she knew the guilt was building up.

  _______________

  The sun was setting when she stood on the ground, a light layer of dirt coating the top of the stone. She brushed it off, stooping down to the headstone as she always did. She wanted to feel close to him, even if this stone was as close as she could get.

  She was all alone in the middle of the cemetery, the only souls in sight the souls of the departed. She looked around, thinking about all of the company Tim was keeping. Babies. Elderly. Teenagers. Death didn’t spare anyone, as she’d learned all too well.

  Before Tim’s death, she’d thought she could never be one of those unfortunate women. Other unlucky women—poor things—lost their husbands at a young age. Not her. Not Sophia. Not Tim. She’d fooled herself into the naïve oblivion of so many in their twenties and thirties. She’d felt immortal, like death happened around them and to others, but not them.

  Then came the earth-shattering call. She’d been at Pink Lemonade when it happened. The words no one could believe, the words she thought she had dreamed.

  _______________

  The horror story began a warm Tuesday afternoon, at exactly 11:19 in the morning. That was when her immortal world stopped turning, replaced by the shivering specimen of death.

  It hadn’t been a monumental day. There’d been no flashing signs telling her life was about to flip over on its side. She’d had a cup of Folgers with him, both relaxing at the island in the kitchen listening to the morning news.

  “I have a meeting after work today,” he reminded her.

  “Okay. I think I’ll make barbecue chicken for dinner. Is that okay?”

  “Sounds good. Maybe we can head to Home Depot after dinner? We need some light bulbs for your closet.”

  “Yeah, okay. My last appointment is at four today, so we should have plenty of time.”

  He finished sipping his coffee, both basking in a long, quiet moment. Tim sighed, looking at his watch. “Guess I should get going. Have a great day, babe. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  They’d kissed. He’d left.

  Then, at 10:47 in the morning, Tim died, all alone in his office, a pile of paperwork his only guide into the afterlife. The heart that had beat solely for her had stopped beating. He’d died, taking a piece of her heart with him, too. He’d torn out of her life in a flash, in a moment, in an unexpected blur. As effortlessly as he came into her life, he was gone, and she was left to fathom how it all happened.

  She knew she was lucky to have had a final, calm moment with him. Some women in the grief group she’d attended the first month had horror stories of harsh, sour final words. Her last encounter had been the normal, routine encounter of their marriage. I love yous, a kiss, and an assumption they would see each other later.

  She couldn’t see it that way, though. It was just a painful reminder of how blindsided she’d been.

  There had been the moments of shock that began at 11:19 that horrifying day. She’d slumped to the floor, zoned out, tuned out Stella’s shrieks and tears. Everything blurred in a swirl of irrational thoughts and feelings, of both chaos and emptiness. In many ways, she felt like she was gone, too, an empty carcass being toted through the motions.

  She barely remembered being transported home, the visits from loved ones, the phone calls, and relentless flowers. She didn’t ask questions, didn’t beg for details. She didn’t hear the comforting words from friends and family, didn’t stop to analyze what it all meant. The moments from the torturous phone call until the moment at the funeral were a hellish blur, a whirling cloud of black smog in her crushed heart. In reality, every moment after Tim was a hellish blur, a distinct fight for survival from a girl who had once had it all.

  _______________

  Every time she stood here on this icy piece of earth, she was taken back to those moments, those moments of sheer hell, when her world had disintegrated beneath her feet.

  Time will heal, everyone told her. It’ll all be okay.

  In a way, they were right. Time was making it more bearable. She didn’t want to die every second of every day. She didn’t wish every breath were her last.

  True, she still had moments each day when she wanted to quit, when the pain of losing him was so torturous she wanted to suffocate.

  She still missed Tim. She still loved him.

  “I love you, Tim. I will always, always love you. I hate how you went away. But I’m trying to make a life for myself. I’m trying to carry on. I’m sorry if it hurts you that I’m trying. I’m sorry.”

  Sophia wished like the movies, she could hear a whisper of forgiveness in the wind or a rustling of the trees. She wanted a sign Tim was okay with her moving on.

  There was just dead silence. She could only hear her own breath.

  A part of her knew asking a dead man for permission to move on was ludicrous. She hadn’t lost her mind or anything. Another part of her, though, felt like she owed it to the man who was her soul mate, her everything, to tell him what was happening.

  A year ago, if you’d asked Sophia if she would ever fall for another man, she would have laughed in your face. She didn’t even fantasize about other men like some women did. She didn’t fantasize about Gerard Butler or anyone else of celeb status. The only man she saw when she closed her eyes or when she thought about forever was Tim. She’d known from the first time their lips had touched two weeks after the lasagna meeting he was it for her.

  It had been a soft, slow, sensuous kiss, the kiss a woman only dreams about. There was no rain like in so many romance movies. Instead, the sky was a heavenly blue, not a cloud in the sky blocking out the sun’s gorgeous rays.

  _______________

  A mariachi band played a festive tune as they stood on the sidewalk, waiting for Stella and her latest man crush to buy a funnel cake. Crowds of kids ran screaming through the streets of the annual festival as parents frantically chased after them. Fried foods passed by everywhere. Sophia hung back, standing near the lemonade stand as she waited for her friend. Tim stood by her, his toe tapping to the music.

  They’d had a lovely third date, reconnecting with their inner-childhoods as they maneuvered the simple street fair. Cotton candy, a few corn dogs, and a lot of getting to know you questions had eased them into a comfortable place.

  Now, he stood smiling, staring at her. She twirled a curl in her fingers self-consciously. “What?”

  “I might be falling for you,” he admitted without hesitation, staring directly in her eyes. He said it as if he were telling her his name was Tim or he loved pizza.

  She felt her cheeks warm. “Okay.”

  “Are you falling for me yet?”

  “You’re forward.” She grinned. She liked his honesty. She’d never been with a man who was so open, so willing to admit his feelings for her.

  “Are you?” He took a step closer.

  “I mean, I like you, but it’s a little soon, don’t you think?”
/>   “No,” he said, gently taking her face in his hands and leaning in to kiss her.

  She’d thought about pushing him away, about saying it was too soon. Who was this guy? Kissing her already?

  She couldn’t, though. Because as soon as his lips touched hers, she realized this was the kiss she’d been waiting for. This was the kiss to make her believe in love, to make her fall for a guy she met over a plate of lasagna. His lips moved slowly, carefully, as if he were drinking in every second. He was gentle yet confident, smoldering yet playful. It was a kiss hinting at what they could be together. It was a kiss hinting Tim was right—it wasn’t too soon, and she definitely could fall for him.

  Tim and Sophia only pulled away when they heard a whistle and some clapping behind them.

  “Nice!” Stella said, laughing as she stopped her clapping.

  Sophia pulled away, wanting to admonish Stella for being immature. She couldn’t say anything. Her gaze was glued to Tim, her lips tingling with the feel of his lips.

  The only words that came to her were ones she would later regret. It was a comment Tim would mercilessly tease her for, would always bring up. Later, when they were in a heated argument or she was pissed at him about his socks lying on the bedroom floor, he would turn to her and say the words symbolic of their relationship.

  As Tim, Stella, and Ricky waited for Sophia to say something romantic, intellectual, or just plain normal, all she managed to say was, “Hot damn!”

  _______________

  Sitting on the ground now, Sophia smiled at the memory. “Hot damn,” she said jokingly, knowing if anyone were around they would have her committed.

  It was a ridiculous thing for her to say, but it was all she could think of. He’d knocked her socks off with the first kiss and every other moment in their time together. He was charismatic, charming, but he always made sure she knew she was the only woman for him. When they went to a party or wedding or a family gathering, she could always feel his eyes on only her, could see him looking at her with sheer lust and love. Their marriage had never undergone the seven-year itch or the boredom so many experienced.

  Sure, they’d had their issues and fights. She hated how he left dirty laundry everywhere in the house. She hated how she had to beg him to pressure wash the house twice a year or to help her clean out the rain gutters. She hated how he never put the salt and pepper shakers back or how he left cereal in his bowl in the mornings. There’d been fights over money, over in-laws, over forgotten dating anniversaries.