Dear Life

by Meghan Quinn

  Yes, I lost Eric after only a year of being his wife, but that wasn’t my choice. Jace had to willingly give his daughter away.

  Oh my God.

  Tears start to well in my eyes, his pain making sense, his closed-off façade understandable. I’m mourning the loss of my late husband, but he’s mourning the loss of his baby girl.

  It’s so incredibly heartbreaking that Marleen’s speech about next week’s class doesn’t register with me. I don’t realize we are done until everyone starts pulling out their stationery and they begin writing to Life.

  I know one thing’s for sure: life is fucked up in so many ways.

  ***

  Dear Life,

  Not going to lie, you truly know how to test someone’s will. As I write this letter, I can’t help but glance over at Jace and notice the acute pain he’s experiencing. A daughter, the man has a daughter but had to give her up. How is that fair? It’s not, that’s obvious from the way he could barely talk about it.

  How is it fair that I’m a widow?

  That’s not fair either, but there you are, giving us these amazing gifts like the unconditional love of a man, or the sweet, contagious love of a daughter, and without warning, you rip them away from us?

  Your actions make me cry. Your plans tear me apart. Your involvement in my sanity is eating me alive.

  But, then you do something like today. You bring four strangers together who know nothing about each other and expose their brokenness, their common heartbreaks, and give them a reason to breathe.

  The mutual need for companionship, for understanding.

  I know what it’s like to lose someone. I know the emptiness that slowly erodes your heart. I can help him heal, which in return, will help me. If this is the first step of letting go, then I’m proud to say that I’m ready to take that first step.

  Sincerely,

  Hollyn

  Dear Life,

  How do you know if people like you? If they are being nice to be nice, or if they genuinely want to be nice to you? I’m not quite sure how to read Jace, Hollyn, and especially Carter.

  He scares me, but then again, he’s so much like me. Wanting to be free, wanting to break out of the confines, the imprisonment he’s been living in. I know the feeling. But where he seems to have someone holding him back, I have fear keeping me in place.

  Fear, probably my biggest enemy. I’m scared for so many reasons, but one of my biggest fears is never knowing what it’s like to experience life, to live on the edge, and to laugh with true friends.

  Do you think they like me? Or do you think they pity me?

  I have no clue how to approach them and I don’t want to look desperate. Gosh, why is this so hard?

  I’m ready to let go of the old Daisy, but there is that little hint of fear dragging me backward with every positive thought. How do I push that fear away? Just dive in head first, sidestepping past the worry? Am I brave enough to do that?

  I sure hope so.

  Kind regards,

  Daisy

  Dear Life,

  Letting go. Huh, easier said than done when it sits so fresh in your mind. There isn’t a minute that goes by that I don’t think about Hope, that I don’t picture her face, or smell her sweet, fresh baby scent. So how am I supposed to let that go when I’m still grieving? How could I ever stop grieving the loss of my flesh and blood?

  Fuck, the pain is too overwhelming to even think about anything else.

  Jace

  Dear Life,

  Fuck you.

  Carter

  Step Three: Grow Your Support

  CARTER

  “Toss me a beer, man,” Fitzy calls from his recliner, his entitled ass stretched out while Joe Buck talks about his winning prediction for the Super Bowl. “Buck is an idiot if he really thinks the Broncos are going to win again. No way. Their quarterback is way too young to carry the team.”

  I reach into the cooler Fitzy firmly planted in the barrel of his coffee table and toss him a beer. “They won’t need their quarterback. Don’t you remember last year? Peyton Manning barely did anything, as it was all about the defense. Cam Newton wasn’t able to penetrate their unbeatable shield. Buck is right, Broncos are going to take it.”

  “You’re only saying that because you’re a hometown boy.”

  “Damn straight.” I sip my beer and dip a chip in my famous buffalo chicken dip I make every year for our Super Bowl party. And when I say Super Bowl party, I just mean the get-together of Fitzy and me. We like to keep things simple, too many people, too much talking, and too many unnecessary voices putting in their unwanted opinions drives us fucking mad.

  Two years ago, we threw a Super Bowl bash, and it was the one and only after Fitzy and I could barely hear what the announcers had to say during the game. Plus, the people who came over were more interested in the halftime show and commercials, so we decided keeping it to just us was much better.

  “I’ve been seeing this girl,” Fitzy says out of nowhere, a smirk on his face.

  “You’ve been seeing a girl?” I can’t hide the shock in my voice. Ever since I’ve known Fitzy he’s never once made such a statement. He’s a pump-and-dump douchebag. I’ve had my fun, but I always felt the most fulfilled when I was in relationship, well, that was until Sasha ripped my testicles from between my legs. I used to like relationships. Now, not so much.

  “Yeah. I met her during at my SkeeBall league.”

  I direct a quizzical eyebrow at Fitzy, completely turning my body now to face him. “SkeeBall league? When the hell did you join a skee-ball league?”

  He shrugs his shoulders as if it’s no big deal. “Can’t expect me to lie around here by myself, waiting for you to get off work to play. Some guy at work told me about it and I signed up.” Smiling at me, he pridefully says, “Come to find out, I’m pretty damn good at it. That’s what got the attention of Martha.”

  “Martha?” I can feel the furrow in my brow and the scrunch in my nose. “Please tell me she’s young and not some sixty-year-old you think is a cougar when in fact she’s a sack of wrinkles.”

  “Martha is a sixty-year-old woman, with a hot-as-shit granddaughter. I was skeeing it up against Martha, giving her a run for her money, when her granddaughter came up next to her to cheer on the old coot. I was so distracted by the miniskirt she was wearing, I blew my last toss, handing over the win to Martha. But it wasn’t too much of a hardship because I had a front row view of Clara jumping up and down in excitement for her grandma. Totally hot, man.”

  “You were playing skee-ball against a sixty-year-old and lost?”

  “Hot granddaughter in miniskirt? Were you not paying attention to my story?” he asks, slightly annoyed.

  “No, I was, that’s still no excuse. You should have been killing it.”

  Fitzy shakes his head as he slowly pulls from his beer bottle. “Listen, I want to recruit Martha for my team, that walker-wielding mistress hits the upper corners like it’s her job.”

  “Is that the real reason you’ve been seeing her granddaughter? To poach Martha for your team?”

  “Hey, if Martha wants to join us, that’s her choice.”

  “There is something seriously wrong with you. Do you at least like Clara?”

  “Yeah, she’s pretty cool.” Fitzy leans over, scoops up some buffalo dip, and plops it in his mouth. “She’s an accountant for some company downtown. I made her wear her glasses and carry a calculator to bed the other night. Fucking an accountant, never thought I would see the day, but hell, it’s hot.”

  “What the hell did you do with the calculator?”

  “It was a prop. She pretended to crunch numbers while I drove into her from behind.”

  I shake my head, laughter rattling my shoulders. “I don’t want to know the kind of trauma you put that poor calculator through.”

  “Eh, it’s not like it was a graphing calculator.”

  “Why?” I ask, snaking another handful of pretzels from the bag in front of us.
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  “Come on.” Fitzy looks at me as if it’s completely obvious. Sighing from my ineptitude of calculators, he enlightens me, “You have to treat graphing calculators with respect. Those handheld geniuses work with multiple equations and ranging variables at the same time. No human brain is quite as smart as a graphing calculator.”

  “Really? Even though humans are the ones that created it,” I deadpan.

  “Pshaw, don’t be jealous, man. Push your worries to the sidelines. I treat you with the same respect as a graphing calculator.”

  I pull a sip from my beer bottle, my fingers digging into the Broncos koozie hugging the bottom of the bottle. “I don’t know if I should be happy about that or punching you in the nuts.” I pause and then add, “Where do I fall in line with an abacus?”

  “What kind of abacus are we talking about here? Chinese, Greek, Persian, Roman? If it’s Chinese, you are far above the wooden beads they would use on their abacuses, but if you’re talking about a Greek abacus, I’m going to have to give the upper hand to the counting board purely because they were made from marble and as you know, I’m a fancy fuck.”

  I stare at my obnoxious friend, perplexed from his asinine and useless knowledge. “Fuck you, man.” I laugh, shaking my head just as my phone beeps with an incoming text message.

  “I’m going to take a piss before the game starts, need anything while I’m up?”

  “I’m good,” I call out just as I look down at my phone.

  The caller ID reads Daisy, with a flower next to her name. Huh, what does she want? Curious, I pull up the message.

  Daisy: Go Broncos! Hope you guys are having a fun day. Step three is to grow our support so I thought I would start a group message. I hope that’s okay. I just learned how to do it from my sister. If you’re not Jace, Hollyn, or Carter, please ignore this message. Thank you.

  Sipping my beer, I stare at the message. Step three. Christ, it’s like this program is forcing friendships upon us. Daisy is all right, Jace is cool, well I assume he’s pretty cool, can’t tell at the moment, but Hollyn, hell, she drives me insane.

  My phone beeps, speak of the devil.

  Hollyn: Great idea, Daisy. Go Broncos!

  Fucking blow my brains out, blow them out right now. I despise group text messages.

  Daisy: Thank you. This is my first time watching the Super Bowl. My sister said it’s the one time you actually want to watch the commercials.

  Hollyn: Your first time? How is that possible?

  This right here, this is why group text messages should never be allowed. Why do I want to be a part of a conversation that really is between two people? Thank you, Apple, thank you for fucking with my sanity.

  Jace: Yeah, how is that possible?

  “Ah, come on, Jace, not you too,” I mutter to my phone.

  “Talking to yourself?” Fitzy asks, jumping into his chair from behind, balancing a bowl of peanut M&M’s—my weakness—in one hand and his beer in the other.

  Fitzy knows all about the Dear Life program. After the first night, I stopped by his place and bitched to him for a few hours, telling him all about Hollyn, Daisy, and her strange old-lady look, but made sure to keep Jace out of the conversation. So basically, the bullshit I have to go through. Fitzy is my boy but the gossip this man can spin around the city of Denver is obnoxious. He swears he can keep a secret, but I know for a fact that’s not true.

  “Snowflake started a group text.”

  “Oh, Snowflake.” Fitzy shakes his head. “Doesn’t she know that’s piss-poor social etiquette?”

  “She has no idea.”

  Turning back to my phone, I catch up on the messages being shot back and forth.

  Daisy: We didn’t have cable and Grams is not much of a sports girl so we never partook in such an event. But don’t worry, I’m dressed for the occasion.

  The next text is a picture of Daisy. Smiling to myself, I press on the picture to make it bigger. Standing in front of the TV where the pregame is playing, Daisy holds a football in a throwing position, wearing a pair of light colored jeans that taper at the ankle, total mom-jean material, and a blue crewneck sweater with an orange Bronco emblem cut and sewed out of different fabrics. And I’m pretty sure . . . yup, once I zoom in, I see the use of puffy paint.

  Fuck, I can’t help the smile that grows from ear to ear. She’s kind of a dork but in a refreshing way. What’s the term? Adorkable? Shit, I hate that I even thought of the word.

  Hollyn: Where did you get that sweatshirt?

  I can’t help it, I ask as well.

  Carter: Yeah, where did you get that sweatshirt? It’s kind of amazing.

  Amazing in a quirky, old-school, it’s-cool-to-be-weird way, but hell, I would wear the shit out of that thing.

  Daisy: I made it! I went to the fabric store the other day and gathered the materials. I wasn’t too sure how it would turn out, but I made some for my sister and her fiancé as well.

  The next text is a picture of Daisy, with who I’m assuming is her sister and her fiancé arm in arm, wearing matching crewneck sweatshirts. I hold in the snort that wants out. The look on the fiancé’s face is priceless. The only reason that man is wearing that sweatshirt is because his woman made him. Just from the way he styles his hair, I can tell he’s not an iconic dresser like myself. If I had that sweatshirt, I would wear it with pride.

  Hollyn: Matt looks like he wants to slam his head into a wall.

  Jace: Hey, Matt works in the front office of my ball club. What a small world.

  Daisy: Matt is humoring me for sure.

  Carter: I would wear that sweatshirt so fucking hard.

  The minute I press send, I wonder why I even typed out that response, let alone sent it. I don’t participate in group messages. I don’t participate in general, but there is something about Daisy that gets under my skin. Maybe it’s her story, how she’s looking to break free like me, or how she’s always looking to please and putting herself out there. Either way, I see the effort she’s making and it makes me want to at least return that effort to her.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Fitzy asks, pulling me from my phone. “You’re not even paying attention to the zingers I’m making at Joe Buck. It’s been some of my best material.”

  “Sorry.” I place my phone next to me on the couch but glance down when I see more incoming texts. There is an underlying need to open them, to read them, to see what everyone is up to. Why? Why is that something I need to know? I barely know these people. I really don’t care to know them, but here I am, forcing myself to watch the pre-game show as Fitzy retells his jokes, while I desperately itch to pick up my phone.

  “Joe Buck is delusional,” Fitzy spouts off. He then turns to me and holds up the bowl in his hand. “M&M?”

  “Sure.” I sigh, reaching over, my eyes catching a glimpse of another picture from Daisy.

  Shit, don’t look at it, don’t look at it.

  Don’t look at it!

  I pop an M&M in my mouth and glance down at my phone, tapping on the picture. It’s an up-close shot of the sweatshirt. So fucking perfect. I smile to myself as I turn my attention back to the game.

  In Daisy’s words, Go Broncos!

  DAISY

  “Everyone seems to think my sweatshirts are quite fetching,” I say, just as Matt starts to jump off the couch, screaming at the TV while holding his plush football he can’t seem to put down. Even when he goes to the bathroom. Blech.

  “That was not fucking passing interference. Are you blind? He didn’t even touch him.” Flopping on the couch in complete distress, Matt grumbles to himself, clenching his football to his chest, the sleeves of his sweatshirt rolled up, and his hair in disarray from pulling on it so much.

  Given this is my first football game, I’m quite lost. Amanda is reading a book in the corner of the couch, occasionally peeking up to see what’s going on, but not paying too close attention. I’m trying to follow everything but I’ve never been more confused in my life. The one thin
g I know, we want to score a touchdown. How that occurs is beyond me, but in the spirit of things, I raise my fist in the air and say, “Let’s go, Broncos, score that touchdown,” which in return will garner a fist bump from Matt.

  I’m not going to lie, sports are tiresome. I’m enjoying the array of junk food at our disposal though. Fritos Bean Dip is my new favorite thing, that and the giant chocolate chip cookie decorated in Broncos colors Amanda picked up from the store. Giant cookie equals delicious on all accounts.

  Feeling the tension in the room from the apparent pass interference—whatever that is—I raise my fist and say, “Go Broncos.”

  Matt pounds the couch and raises his fist as well. “Fuck yeah, go Broncos.”

  That’s a lot of passion.

  Do I have that much passion about anything? I like crafting, but I would never pound my craft table and scream obscenities if there was a glue interference while securing jewels to a baseball cap. Maybe if Gene Kelly was still alive and I got to watch him tap away on Broadway to Singin’ in the Rain, maybe I would be fist-pumping the air and telling Gene to tap his heart out. Maybe.

  “Do we need a refill on chips?” I ask, looking at the empty bowl.

  Matt nods, eyes glued to the television. “That would be great, Daisy. Could you grab me a beer while you’re up?”

  “Matt, she’s not your maid,” Amanda chastises.

  “Oh, it’s okay. I don’t mind. I have to get another CapriSun anyway.”

  Snagging the bowl, I bring my phone with me and type out a quick text to the group.

  Daisy: What is a pass interference?

  I’m so lost when it comes to football, and it seems to be the one thing that is bringing this group a little closer together, so I want to know more.

  We have an impressive chip selection. Amanda informed me that the Super Bowl is like Christmas to Matt, that and the World Series. Both sporting events he goes all out for, no matter who’s playing. When he came home the other night with a trunkful of drinks, some alcoholic, and tons of snacks, Amanda wasn’t surprised. Instead, she went to the car to help him unpack.