The Weight of Life

by Whitney Barbetti

  “Anywhere in particular?” I asked before shoving another piece of cheesecake in my mouth.

  “I’d love to go to the desert, actually. Like the mountainous desert. I had a pen pal in Utah who told me there are places that look like the beach, right in that landlocked state. Amazing.”

  I tried to gauge how old she might be—because her attitude reminded me of a college-aged young woman—someone a handful of years younger than me. She either was my age with amazing skin or twenty-two-ish with eyes that had seen more than most her age; an old soul.

  “I’ve been to Utah a few times. There are definitely a lot of state parks with landscapes like you described.” She looked to be hanging on my every word, her blue eyes wide and interested. “You should go.”

  And just like that, the dreamy look left her eyes and she pulled back, straightening. “Oh, I’d love that. But I can’t.”

  I didn’t want to presume a reason why, but seeing the way everything around her had gone darker, I felt compelled to say something. “Tickets aren’t too expensive, if you keep an eye on it. I’ve found round trip from Denver, which is the next state over, for less than four-hundred American dollars.”

  She gave me a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Oh, it’s not money. Well, it is, but not the way you think.” She looked around, as if she was checking for anyone who could possibly overhear her. “It’s this place.” She rubbed her hand on the lip of the bar for a second before letting go. “It’s my dad. You know.” She shrugged.

  My eyebrows drew together. “No, I don’t know.”

  “Well, he doesn’t run the pub anymore. Not since…” She sniffed, and then whipped her rag off of her shoulder to rub at the spot she’d touched on the bar. “Ames runs it pretty much solo. I couldn’t leave him. And plus, with my studio—it’s just not a good time for me to disappear.”

  “What about your sister?”

  She paused her rubbing and let go of her rag, looking at me with a small frown on her face. “Ames didn’t tell you?” She fingered the M at her neck. “My sister died.”

  The bite of cheesecake I had in my mouth started to dissolve, because I was sure if I tried to chew and swallow it, I’d choke on it. And before I could say anything, the back door of the pub opened and Ames stepped through, stopping when he saw me.

  I tried to process what Lotte had said, and it was like all my thoughts had suddenly become a hundred decibels louder in my head. Ames definitely hadn’t said anything. Not a word. He had never tried to explain it to me. How had she died, I wondered. How long ago?

  “Look who popped by,” Lotte called over to him. He took a tentative step forward, watching me, guarded.

  “Hey, do you think we can go to the garden and talk?" he asked.

  Sweat poured off of his arms, and suddenly he seemed more dangerous than he had before. I hesitated saying yes right away and I felt Lotte looking at us both. He looked at me expectantly, waiting for an answer. It must've been a solid ten seconds before I carefully set my fork down and silently followed him.

  The garden was much more than I expected. There were a half-dozen tables set up with little solar panel lights on each one, placed on circular inlays of stone. Cobblestone paths crisscrossed throughout the garden. Interspersed in little spots in the middle of the pathways were large copper planters, with flowers spilling over their tops. I thought Ames would lead me to one of the tables, but he stopped near the back of the garden and turned to me, the ivy-covered fence his backdrop.

  “Hi.” I shoved my hand into the pocket of my jacket, needing to busy my body so that I didn’t show him how clearly things had shifted for me.

  He wasn’t married. The realization hit me then.

  “Your wife.” I pointed back at the bar and paused before continuing. “Lotte told me that she … passed away.”

  “She died two years ago.” His jaw was tight, but he didn’t look filled with animosity the way I’d expected. Little by little, he was thawing toward me—as if he was no longer fighting whatever had been holding him an arm’s length away.

  “I’m so sorry.” I shook my head, and my hand was still pointed at the bar. “I thought—well, you wear a wedding ring, and you work with or for your in-laws, so I assumed you were still…” the word ‘married’ tasted like poison on my tongue. Because, “Hey, you’re no longer married because your wife passed away,” was not a thing I wanted to say. Death was final in many ways, but not in feeling.

  “I understand.” He gripped the back of a wrought iron chair, eyes trained on the ground beneath us. “Even though my wife—Mahlon, but we called her Mal—passed away two years ago, I still consider my sister-in-law and father-in-law family.”

  He pointed above my head, back at the building. “I live upstairs with them actually.”

  I looked at the narrow, tall windows above the ground level of the building. “Your sister-in-law and father-in-law only?”

  “My mother-in-law, Rayna, passed away shortly before Mal did.” He met my eyes, and gone was whatever shield he’d held up for so long. “Cancer.”

  “It makes sense.” I wrapped one arm around my middle and nodded my head toward the building. “Lotte. She seems so young, but not immature.”

  “Yeah, well, I suppose losing your mum before you’re twenty and your sister before you’re twenty-one will do that to you.”

  “And you take care of her.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Asher, my father-in-law, he’s … well, he doesn’t leave the flat much.” He paused, and then asked, “Do you want to sit?”

  I took the seat he pulled out for me and he took the one across from me. The sun was directly over our heads, so he unraveled the umbrella over the table to shield us.

  “Is he sick?”

  “Clinically, no. But he’s had a broken heart for the last two years—and a general fear of the world around him. When the world takes half of your family in one summer … well, it’s a miracle he’s still got a bit of good humor.”

  “So you stayed, after your mother-in-law and…” it felt weird saying her name, and I didn’t want to say the wrong thing by calling her something as unspecified as ‘wife.’ But I said her name, because if there was one thing I’d learned about grief, it was that not talking about it was unproductive and ineffective in the healing process. “Mal. After they passed away, you stayed with them?”

  “They’re my family,” he replied simply. “But yes. Asher owns the pub. It was meant to be Mal’s inheritance, and when she passed, Asher tried to give it to Lotte.” He settled in his seat, and for the first time since we’d gone outside, I marveled that he was actually speaking with me. Revealing things that he hadn’t before, and it wasn’t taking even the least bit of prying from me to get them out. “But Lotte— you were right. She’s a dancer.” He waved vaguely behind him, toward the bar.

  I stuck my finger in the grates of the table, thinking. A breeze brushed past us, lifting my hair so that it whipped in front of my face. Ames was watching me all the while, as I processed what he was telling me. “Why are you telling me this? Now? A few days ago, I felt like my presence was exactly what you didn’t want.”

  “You’d be right in that. But.” He waited until I was looking at him again, and then his hand gently, and tentatively, covered mine. “After the park three days ago, and what you said. You know grief. You’re fresher than I am from it, but talking about it with someone who isn’t…” he paused, his jaw clenched for a moment. “Well, they don’t look at you like you’re making them uncomfortable.” He looked away for a moment, and I watched the line of his neck as he swallowed. “It’s not a feeling I relish.”

  “I understand.”

  “I know you do.” His hand was still on top of mine, warming my knuckles under the cool shade. “I don’t want to stop talking about her. That would be…”

  “Worse than death,” I added for him, and then covered his hand with my other. Gently, I squeezed and gave him a sad smile. “I am right there
, with you. When I brought it up at the park a few days ago, the look on your face made me stop talking. Because I didn’t want to be that person, to make someone else uncomfortable.”

  “And that’s not how it should be, right? At least, I don’t think so. Mal doesn’t deserve to be buried in the recesses of my memory.”

  I could tell he wanted to talk about her—between the wistfulness in his eyes and the way his hand squeezed mine back. “Tell me about her. When did you meet her?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said abruptly, and I could feel his hand start to slip from between mine. “I just … wanted to tell you I commiserate. I didn’t mean to burden you with my ghosts.”

  I held onto his hands tightly and scooted my chair on the stone closer toward him, making a loud sound that had us both cringing and then laughing. “I want to hear about her—Mahlon—Mal,” I told him earnestly.

  He turned to me, his eyes open and soft. My heart broke a little then, wondering if I was the first person to ask him about her in too long. He blinked, and then he took on a faraway look. “I met her in year three, in primary school, shortly after I’d transferred to school here. Truth be told, I’d ignored her through the wet months of January and February, until one day, in March, when she walked into the classroom after a long weekend, a bright pink cast on her arm.” His lips tilted up then. “And it wasn’t the god-awful color that was so distracting, it was that people asked to sign it and she told them no. The assumption was that she wanted to leave that pink unmarred, but then one day she asked me to sign it. Handed me the thick, black marker and held up her arm expectantly. So, I signed it. Even got a glob of jam from the sandwich I was eating on it. She beamed, and when I’d wiped away most of the jam she had me draw a circle around it and then make it into a smiley face.

  “But then she did the strangest thing—or the strangest thing to me at the time. She then allowed everyone else to sign it. At first, whatever little pride I’d held being the only one to sign it had dissipated—because it wasn’t special anymore. And because I’m not one to shy away from confrontation, I cornered her and asked why.” His smile grew wider, lighting up his whole face. “And she told me, ‘I don’t care if everyone in the world signs it. But I wanted you to be first.” He shrugged, and almost seemed shy about it. “It just meant a lot to hear that.”

  “She liked you.”

  “She liked everyone. She lived for sunshine. She always woke up in a good mood, did everything she could for anyone who’d ask. She always had an entourage surrounding her—among which were many good men she could have chosen, but she’d picked me first, always. She was a sunshine girl, everyone’s best friend, and falling in love with her was the easiest, most sure thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

  The smile slipped from his lips and his eyelids lowered. “After her mum died, she didn’t have that magic in her anymore. It was as if she’d lost it somehow—well, that’s what she thought. I always saw it in her, but her mother’s death had dimmed it significantly. She…” He swallowed, exhaled. “She started drinking a lot. She was hiding it from us, stealing bits here and there when she worked at the pub, but that was alright. We could manage that, keep an eye on her. She was safe here. But then she started needing distance, and started spending time away from us, at pubs we didn’t know. She stopped seeing her friends, she slept all day long, and then one night she drank too much vodka and drove home. For reasons unknown, she swerved in the middle of a road and the car flipped, rolling down a ditch and into a shallow stream.” He pulled his hands from mine and laid back against his chair. “The accident wasn’t what directly killed her. What killed her was the car, upside down in the stream. Because she didn’t have the wherewithal to unbuckle herself, and she drowned, alone, just after midnight.”

  “That’s horrible,” I told him, because sorry didn’t need to be said. ‘Sorry’ always sounded so weak to me, like a kneejerk reaction to a tragedy. Ames didn’t need me to apologize for something I had no control over, and he didn’t need me to apologize for the hurt he still felt. He needed me to understand, to see his pain and not shy away from it.

  “It was the worst year of my life.” He brushed a hand down his face. “To lose them both, so quickly, it was too much, too soon.” He spread his palm out on the table and I watched as he flexed his fingers into it over and over, like he was holding an invisible hand. “I miss her, every bloody day. And I’m trying to do right by her, to be there for her family in their time of need. But it’ll never be enough. And that’s what I live with, every day. Knowing my presence, though it helps them out, is a constant reminder of what’s missing.”

  I placed my palm on the table beside his, not quite touching him. Just a few inches away from him. “They could’ve lost you, too. You weren’t in the car with her, but you could’ve left them after she died—”

  “I couldn’t have done that,” he interrupted harshly.

  “Your character couldn’t. But, physically, you could. You’re not obligated to them. You’re here, for them, for her. And that’s more than I think a lot of people could commit to. They’re lucky to have you, Ames.”

  His head lifted and I watched as he absorbed that, and I grieved for him. To lose your spouse, and to feel that obligation of helping their family—but to not feel like it’s an obligation, but rather something that you’d absolutely, unequivocally do … well, it said a lot about him to me.

  Slowly, his pinky finger brushed mine, and somehow that felt more intimate than the way we’d held hands minutes earlier. “Do you want to talk about him, your boyfriend?”

  “Maybe another time.” I gave him a reassuring smile. “Thank you for telling me about her.”

  “Thank you for not making me feel like I was inconveniencing you.”

  “Never,” I breathed. “I want to hear about it. I want to know those things. It makes me feel … well, less alone. Not that this is a club I want to hand out memberships to. But it’s good, to not feel alone, don’t you think?”

  He gave me a thoughtful smile, and then his fingers trailed across the back of my hand to where my thumb met my forefinger. Slowly, he urged my hand to flip over, so it was palm up. And when I did, he grasped my wrist gently and brought it closer to him.

  For some reason, my chest felt very tight when he did that. Like I couldn’t breathe deeply enough. His fingers grazed over the length of mine, and instinctively, mine curled, clasping his tightly. I swallowed hard, feeling goosebumps raid the length of my arms.

  “Why did you run away three days ago?”

  Did I dare tell him? Did I dare say what fear had been running through my mind then, a fear that was no longer a fear—but a thing I was actually anticipating?

  “I thought you might kiss me.”

  He didn’t laugh, or even look surprised, which made my belly flip upside down. “And that scared you enough to make you run away?”

  “B-because I thought you were off-limits,” I stuttered.

  “Am I on-limits now?” The side of his mouth lifted, and I realized how freaking attractive he was like that, with the slow flirting.

  “I’m not sure.” My voice went lower without me realizing it, and I swallowed. “Are you?”

  “What are you doing Sunday evening?”

  The question brought me back to earth. “Nothing.”

  “Come to dinner with me. At Sam’s house.”

  My stomach curled up in the sweetest anticipation. The invitation, from his lips, was a huge departure from the Ames who’d reluctantly agreed to take me to Postman’s Park. “I’d love to. Should I meet you here?”

  “I’ll come to your hotel. Where is it?”

  I pulled out a card from my pocket and handed it to him. “I’ve kept this on me just in case I get lost again, but now I’m pretty sure I know my way from here to there.”

  “Good on you.” He laughed softly. “Alright. I’ll collect you at five.”

  I tried to stifle the smile that stretched across my lips, but I couldn’t. “O
kay.” I stood up, wanting to leave now before the moment burst, so I’d have time to replay this whole conversation a hundred times as I lay in my bed, with a stupid smile on my face.

  “Oh, Mila?”

  “Yes?” I turned around, just before I made it to the door.

  “I wasn’t going to kiss you then.”

  “Well, that’s good. Because I don’t kiss until the third date.”

  He stood and tucked his hands into his pockets, and he looked so handsome like that; it was all I could do not to walk back to him, to see if he could look at me the way he had at the park, like he wanted to kiss me.

  “Sunday’s not a date. It’s just a dinner.”

  “Right, it’s not a date. Just like you were not going to kiss me at the park.”

  “You don’t believe me? That I wasn’t going to kiss you?”

  Pursing my lips, I shook my head. And that’s when he walked, unhurried, across the patio, toward me. If my boots hadn’t felt so heavy, I would’ve sworn that I’d started levitating in that moment. The look in his eyes was serious and sure—focused right on me. He stopped a breath from me and brought his hand up between us, pausing just before he touched my face. Because I sensed he was waiting for an invitation, I nodded once, and then swallowed and stilled my breaths as much as I could.

  His fingers came to rest on my cheekbone, before they glided across my skin. He leaned in and my eyelids felt heavy. He tucked my hair behind my ear, and then touched his forehead to mine. “Mila, when I kiss you, I promise you—you won’t be thinking that I might. I’ll just do it. When you’re least expecting it.”

  His hand fell from my ear to my shoulder and he squeezed before backing up. “Sunday. Five.”

  I didn’t trust my voice then, so I just dumbly nodded and left.

  Chapter Seven

  More than once over the last few days, I’d tried to talk myself out of the dinner I’d agreed to.

  When I’d walked in on Mila and Lotte talking, I’d felt something deep within me shift—like it was making room, allowing feelings to bloom in the dead space inside of my chest.