The Best of Me

by Karlee Michelle

  I head straight to the counter and the guy looks at me strangely. Surely, I’ve taken him by surprise. “Can I help you?” He sounds slightly worried.

  “I need something strong,” my tired voice cracks through the sentence as I force myself to keep my eyes open through the exhaustion.

  His eyebrow lifts. “Bad day?”

  I scoff, “You don’t even know.”

  “What’s your normal drink?” His tone is friendly, genuinely wanting to help.

  I shrug my shoulders. “Dunno. I’ve never drank a day in my life.”

  He’s slightly hesitant now as his brows pull together. Probably putting two and two together. “Are you sure—”

  “I just got done burying my husband. Give me something to numb the pain.” Anger strikes as the tears brim again, but they don’t fall. My voice cracks, softer this time. “Please.”

  He has the look in his eyes. The one that’s heartbroken for me, but he knows nothing he says will help. He’s also a bit uncomfortable. A fancy glass bottle appears on the counter, and I pay way too much for it. I don’t ask what it is because it doesn’t matter. Whiskey? Bourbon? Hell, if I know, and I don’t really care either.

  Throwing the bag on my seat, I round the corner onto our empty dirt road in the country, driving to the now-empty home where I planned to grow old with my husband.

  It takes me four or five trips to bring all the pictures, flowers, and cards in, but once the door shuts, I stand completely still in my home that now feels more like a house because my home is buried six feet under. I’ll never feel the comfort I felt when I was in his arms again. A defeated sigh leaves my body as I take off my coat and throw it on the ground before unzipping my dress and pushing it off my body, leaving it on the floor of the hallway as I go into our room. In nothing but my bra and underwear, I step onto the cozy carpet I once loved, find his favorite gray tee, and throw it on. I bury my nose in the collar and breathe in his lingering scent, trying to commit it to memory. His shirt hangs mid-thigh, and I’m freezing, so I throw on some long socks before heading back to the kitchen. I stare at the bottle on my counter for a long time before getting out a glass. The only noise in the home are my racing thoughts and the hum of the heater.

  “Screw it.” Spinning off the glass top, I pour myself a large amount. I’m sure this is way too much, but hey, who’s going to stop me? I swirl the amber liquid around because it seems like that’s what I’m supposed to do before bringing the cool glass to my lips. I take a big gulp and immediately regret it. Fire burns my mouth and down my throat, and I frantically chase it with water from my faucet.

  “Jesus, why would people drink this?” But then a warm tide washes over me from the top of my head down to my toes. “Ahh, that’s why.”

  Grabbing my glass, I walk over to the dock and connect my phone to play Best of Me by Sum 41 on repeat. To lessen the burn, I take smaller sips, and the liquid goes down smoother with each drink. Between this and the music, memories hit me left and right, and it doesn’t take long until I’m three sheets to the wind. The physical pain may have left my body, but mentally—it’s worse. I don’t remember how many drinks I’ve had, but the way I’m stumbling to the bedroom, it’s been a few.

  “Crap!” My toe throbs as it smashes against the bedframe I’ve asked Derek to fix since we moved in. My body collapses on the mattress, and I lay on his side of the bed for the first time. It still smells like him. Everything still smells like him. I curl under the blanket and tears soak my pillow as I squeeze the blankets tight in my fist while the heartache pours out of me. I miss him so much, and I’d give anything to feel his arms wrap around me. I just want him here, but he’s gone—for good.

  Please come back to me.

  kenopsia-the eerie, forlorn atmosphere

  of a place that’s usually bustling with people

  but is now abandoned and quiet

  Emery

  June

  It’s been three weeks since I’ve gone from Mrs. to Ms. From married to a widow. Looking in the mirror, I see a lifeless body covered by a white blouse tucked into a charcoal gray pencil skirt lined with a skinny belt. Derek loved this work outfit on me, and I’m waiting for his warm hands to settle on my hips as he kisses my neck from behind.

  You look stunning, Emery Jean.

  He loved using my first and middle name. No one did it before him, but then it stuck, and now people use either-or. My eyes shut as I wait in desolate silence for the touch I know I won’t physically feel. If I think hard enough, I can remember it. I can remember the feel of his calloused hands against my skin, the stubble of his beard tickling my face as he peppers me with kisses, and the deep vibrato of his laugh echoing over my flesh. His happiness and joy were so contagious, I didn’t have a choice but to flourish under him.

  The first three days after the funeral, I did nothing but cry. But now, as I navigate my way through the catastrophic devastation of losing my favorite person, the tears won’t fall. My body is exhausted mentally and physically. The morning after the funeral, I dumped the hundred-fifty-dollar bottle of whiskey down the drain, knowing drinking my sorrows away every night wasn’t the answer. The last thing I needed was the hangover on top of my pre-existing heartbreak. I could barely move, and the sound of my breathing alone made my head want to explode. So, I locked the door to my house and laid on my husband’s side of the bed for three days straight and cried.

  On the fourth day, I got out of bed. My depleted body was sore and achy from not moving, so I took a bath and changed into another one of his shirts. My phone rang off the hook between my parents, Drew, and Derek’s mom, Julia. No way in hell was I going to talk, so I sent the same text every morning.

  Me: Just need some time. xx

  My chest rises as I suck in a deep breath, not in the mood to put on a smile for anyone. I’m a receptionist for a high-end tech company, but my boss had the kindness to start me in the back, auditing paperwork until I’m comfortable being upfront again. I haven’t been to work in three weeks, and I called them last Friday to let them know I was coming back. I’m not ready, but I’m desperate for any semblance of normalcy in my life. Hopefully, going back to work will bring some sort of comfort or distraction.

  Grabbing the keys off the dresser, his wallet, phone, watch, and wedding ring sit in the glass bowl. The pit in my stomach grows at the sight of his things. Never again will they be touched by their rightful owner.

  It’s unfair.

  I take one last look at myself in the mirror, and my brown hair hangs below my shoulders in gentle waves. Unfortunately for me, concealer can only cover so much sadness. While I look put together, my eyes speak louder than anything.

  “I’m gonna need you today, Derek.”

  It’s the first time I’ve spoken to him out loud, and I would give anything to hear him respond. Knowing it will never happen, I throw on my coat and head for the door. It’s cool for a mid-June day, and the dreary, overcast cloud imitates my mood. The thought pulls at my lips for the first time, and the small smile feels foreign. It’s my perfect day, overcast skies and rain is my absolute favorite weather. The leaves thicken in the trees as they lightly blow through the breeze. The smooth rustle against the wind and the sweet smell of rain permeates the air. Derek could never understand it, but it feels like he did this to make starting my new normal a little easier.

  “Thank you, D.”

  I look at my lonely Sonata in the driveway, its partner car nowhere in sight, as it’s in pieces littered amongst a junkyard full of wreckage and garbage. Just like my heart. Getting in the car, his USB is still on the passenger side, and the seat is pushed back to accommodate his long legs with the position leaned back. Everything around me is still so touched by him, and it’s hard not to catch my breath at every turn, like him leaving his socks next to the laundry basket. It used to drive me insane, but now I wish his socks covered the whole floor.

  The smooth hum of the engine fills the silence as I look around my car. I don’t da
re play music, only God knows every song will make me think of him, and I’ll lose it. I can’t lose it today. I want—no, I need—to start my new reality on a strong note. It doesn’t have to be spectacular or extraordinary. I just want to get through it with civility and no crying.

  Baby, the moment that Sarah Mclachlan song plays on the commercial, you’re in tears. Let’s be realistic.

  “Oh, you be quiet. Jackass.” I chuckle before realizing what just happened. It felt like he was right here in the car, making fun of me like he usually would before he’d grab my face and give me a sloppy kiss on the cheek. Shaking it off, I make my way to work and pull into the parking lot. Out of habit, I automatically go to my spot, but it’s filled. Even though I should’ve expected this because it’s been so long, I’m still annoyed. It’s going to be a good day, Emery Jean. Roll with it.

  Our building has a Starbucks inside, so I stop to grab an iced coffee—I could use all the help I can get.

  “Good Morning! It’s been a while, how are you?” Sara, the barista, greets me with a big, friendly smile. She’s either completely unaware of my situation or playing it off. Either way, I kind of appreciate it. It gives me a sense of normalcy when everything in my life has been tilted off its axis.

  “Hi, Sarah. I’m okay, how are you?” I give her a small but genuine smile, which is more than I’ve been able to do in a while.

  “Great. Loving the weather.” Her eyes grow big with excitement.

  “Really? Me too. I live for dreary days,” I say as I scan my app.

  “Oh, for sure. Nothing like snuggling up with a good book or bingeing Netflix.” She smiles at me, peppy and ready for the day. I wish I had her energy. “Your usual Iced Vanilla Latte?”

  “No, just an Iced Black. Thank you.”

  Moments later, she hands me my coffee, and I smile once more. “Thank you, Sarah,” I say, lacing my thanks with more gratitude than necessary.

  She looks at me slightly confused by my sincerity but brushes it off with a grin in return. “Of course. Have a great day, Mrs. Sutton.” The prefix knocks the wind from my chest, but I school my features and turn, hustling to the elevator to get to my department. Racing inside, I press the glowing red button and wait for the doors to shut with just myself inside.

  Breathe, baby. I’m right here.

  “I wish that were true.” The mere breath of my whisper leaves my lips in wishful thinking. My eyes close, and I focus on the lift of the elevator, the cool condensation of my iced coffee in one hand, and the smooth leather strap of my purse in the other. The slight jolt of the elevator stopping causes me to open my eyes, signaling I’m at my floor. Here we go.

  Chin up, baby.

  Following Derek's orders, I lift my chin and exit the elevator. My determination only lasting a few minutes as the stares and apologetic looks remind me why I was gone. I can do this. I will do this. Once I’m at my old desk, Monica looks up with a sweet smile. A comforting one.

  “Get over here!” She stands and walks around the desk, wrapping me in her arms. “I’m not going to say anything. I’m sure you’ve heard it all on repeat. But we all love you. I’m here if you need to talk. Otherwise, I’m going to treat you as if everything is normal.”

  That alone makes me want to cry but in gratitude. Seeing pity in the eyes of everyone I pass makes going through this day ten times harder. But she knows what it’s like because she lost her husband of twenty-five years several years ago.

  I hug her back. “Thank you.”

  She gives me one more squeeze before letting go. “C’mon, lady. I got a lot to catch you up on.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  “Have you been briefed on anything?” she asks with upturned eyebrows.

  “Not a single thing.”

  “Buckle up.” She chuckles. “So, Darren, one of the head accountants?” She asks if I know him, and I nod, remember seeing him often. “Yeah, well, he was embezzling money, so you, my dear, are in for a ride with these audits.”

  I nearly choke on my iced coffee. “Wow, I thought Mr. Thompson was trying to be nice by giving me something to do in the back.”

  “I mean, you can tell yourself that if it helps.” She chuckles and shows me to the office they have set up for me. A big bouquet of white gardenias sits on the desk with a card. My fingers immediately brush over the soft silk of the white petals.

  “Thank you.” I turn and look at Monica. “This was sweet. I appreciate it.” A tight smile pulls at my face, and she nods.

  “Let me know if you need any help or if you’re confused at all. You know where to find me.” She winks and walks back out the glass door as I stand in my new light gray office. A large L-shaped desk sits in the corner with two black chairs on the other side of it. Moving the bouquet to the side, I immediately dive into work, not giving myself a second to ponder anything else.

  By lunchtime, I want to call and thank Darren, the stealing accountant, because I haven’t come up for air once. There are so many inconsistencies, I have more than enough to keep me busy, and the distraction is very welcome. Reaching into my bag, I pull out my lunch I packed from home—a plain turkey sandwich and a bland granola bar—not wanting to socialize but rather keep busy the whole hour. The day flies by, and at five-forty-five, Monica knocks at my door before she enters.

  “Told ya. I knew it would be a doozy.”

  “Honestly, this is exactly what I needed.”

  She smiles and nods. “I’m heading out. Most of our floor is already gone. Do you still have your key?”

  “I do. Thank you, Monica.”

  “Of course. Have a good night.”

  “You too.” She leaves and I roll my neck—it’s beyond stiff from looking down all day. I’ll have to ask Derek to rub it for me. Ouch. I cringe as the thought was so natural. The slam of my reality is like catching a line-drive ball with no mitt. An explosion of pain throbs in my chest, and it takes a minute to realize what just happened. Inhaling a deep breath, I pack my things and lock the entry to the back part of the floor before leaving.

  After driving home and walking into my house, I set my purse on the counter and chuck off my shoes. The low hum of the fridge is the only static noise between these walls. I’m waiting for him to come barreling out of the bedroom and start making dinner with me. Lift me off the floor, spin me in a circle, and kiss me stupid. But there’s nothing, no happy greeting or rowdy footsteps, only the empty sound of desolation where love and laughter used to fill. I start a pot of coffee and pull out my phone. When I turn it on, about twenty text messages and a couple of voicemails from my family come through. Deciding to call my mom, I click her name, and she picks up on the first ring.

  “Emery? Baby girl? Are you okay?” Her worried voice rings in my ear.

  “Hi, Mom.” Putting her on speaker, I set the phone on the counter and get out a pan and noodles to make pasta.

  “I’ve been worried sick about you.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, I just—I couldn’t. Today was my first day back at work.”

  “How did it go?”

  “Good. Super busy. I was so distracted I didn’t have time to think about anything or talk to anyone else. So, it was good.” Anxiety creeps up my spine, setting every vertebrae on fire in fear that the more good days I have, the further Derek falls from my memory. My breath catches, and I swallow it down. “I’m scared to forget him, Mom.”

  She sighs into the phone. “Emery, you couldn’t forget that man if you tried. He’d haunt you before he’d let you forget him.”

  A small laugh bubbles out of my lips, and I wipe the wetness from my eyes. It’s then I realize how much I could use their company. “I’m making pasta. Do you guys want to come over?”

  I know she hears the underlying message in my question—that I need them here. “You know, your dad was just saying he was craving pasta.”

  I laugh again, and the familiar sound eases the pain just a little. “Dad hates pasta.”

  The smile in her voice shows thr
ough her words. “Yeah, but he loves you.” I smile, and she’s silent for a moment. “We’ll grab Drew on the way over. Lord knows she’s not doing anything tonight. We’ll be there in about thirty minutes, is that okay?”

  “Perfect.” We hang up, and I get the sauce simmering in the pot while the noodles boil. After making a side salad, I walk across the hardwood floors to my room to change. Opening the closet, I head to Derek’s side first, but think twice of it and put on comfy clothes of my own. Before I go back to the kitchen, I grab a new shirt of his and lay it on the bed for tonight, when our wedding picture on the wall by the door stops me. I’m looking at the camera, but his eyes are glued to me. I smile at the memory, and my fingers trace the cool glass of the frame over his handsome face.

  “I miss you something fierce, Derek Sutton.”

  I miss you too, Emery Jean.

  nodus tollens—the realization that the plot of your life

  doesn't make sense to you anymore

  Emery

  Just as I finish setting the table and putting the food out, the soft knock at my door followed by the twist of the knob sets in the sense of familiarity I immediately appreciate. My sister barges inside my house, a sea of blonde hair and green eyes frantically searching for me, and the moment she sees me, Drew lunges her body at me, embracing every inch she humanly can. She’s only two years younger than me, and I’ve never been happier to have her as my best friend right now.

  “God, don’t ever push me out for that long again. I’ll kick your depressed ass.”

  I chuckle. “You’ve already had a drink, haven’t you?”

  “Har har.” She releases me and runs her fingers through the ends of my hair before meeting my brown eyes with her green ones. “I’ve been worried sick about you.”

  “I’m sorry.” I really am.

  Drew shakes her head, cupping my cheek. “Don’t be.”

  “Okay, quit hogging my girl.” My dad moves Drew out of the way and wraps his burly arms around me, taking me right back to middle school and high school, when a boy would break my heart and into his arms I’d run. His rich scent of a vanilla cigar and sawdust from working in the pole barn comforts me in the way I need. The short, prickly white scruff on his face blends into his short gray hair. I get my eyes from my dad, but not my height. He’s tall, and my mom is short.