The Best of Me

by Karlee Michelle

  She’s about to crack another joke, but I rest my hand on hers. “Thank you, Drew. I needed this today, much more than I knew.” My chin quivers and tears are full to the brim.

  Drew immediately wraps me in her arms again. “I love you, Em. I’d do anything for you.”

  “I love you too,” I push out through my crackled voice, holding her a little longer. The comfort of my sister settles over me, and I pull away, wiping my eyes. “Okay. I’ll be better for the rest of the night.”

  She cocks her head and gives me a tight smile. “It’s okay if you’re not better for the rest of the night. You don’t need to put any energy into forcing a happy face for me. I’m here to spend time with my sister, regardless if she’s happy or sad.”

  I got so lucky with her. “I know. But I’m glad you’re here, excited even. And this sushi looks hecka good, so let’s go eat.” I laugh and bring the food back to my coffee table in front of the couch. For some reason, I quickly grab the letter from the mystery guy and the one I wrote back and stuff them into the cushion until I can put them in my room without being obvious. I’m not sure why my first instinct was to hide it, but I’m not going to think about it anymore. I’m going to eat sushi, watch movies, and look up stupid memes with my sister. Although this wasn’t the first anniversary I ever would’ve imagined, I’m lucky to have her with me.

  filipendulous—hanging by a thread

  Emery

  October

  I keep looking outside the huge window in the front of our home for the mailman. I’ve become obsessed. Waiting, and waiting, and waiting some more. I dropped off my letter to the post office two Sundays ago after Drew left, deciding to bite the bullet and send what I wrote back. Every day since then, I get butterflies in my stomach—utterly anxious to see if I get a letter back. It’s been over two weeks, and the anticipation is driving me up the wall.

  “Where are you?” I ask no one, biting my nails and pacing back and forth while looking out for the—“Ah!” Our mail lady pulls up and I all but run out the door to the mailbox.

  She greets me, “Hi, Mrs. Sutton!” I smile back at her. Hearing Mrs. Sutton doesn’t have the painful effect it did a month ago. Now, it feels like a sweet reminder—a piece of him bound to me, or me to him.

  “Hi, Miss Maria. How are you?”

  “I’m good! Here you go.” She hands me a big stack of mail, and my hope skyrockets.

  “Thank you! Have a good day and stay warm!” I’ll apologize later for being so short and running back into the house so quickly. I’ll blame it on the cold fall weather. Once inside, I flip through the mail, fumbling so much I drop it all over the floor.

  “Shoot!” My knees clank on the floor to pick them up when I notice the last piece of mail is blank. “Holy crap.” I look at the blank envelope in my hand, the same PO Box as last time. “He wrote back. He wrote back! This is crazy.” My fingers squeeze the envelope in my hand, and I decide to grab a cup of coffee to sit down with before reading. The billowing steam folds back and forth from my mug as I get comfortable, taking a sip followed by a deep breath before ripping open the envelope.

  How do you build back trust that you’ve obliterated into shreds from the ones you love? If once a cheater, always a cheater rings true, is that the same for liars? I want to be better. I have been better. But the moment I smell the harsh tang of a cigarette, all my cravings increase ten-fold. That’s all it takes. My mouth waters and my brain immediately starts thinking of the lies I can tell to get away and find a hit. Anything. Something. My head screams at me to give it something. And it’s the all-time battle—me against myself. Do I give in to the lustful craving of the sweet bliss that only lasts so long, making sure to destroy the people around me, myself included? Or do I stand tall, headstrong, and fucking miserable? Sober enough to remember the shit I’ve done and feel like an absolute bastard for everything I’ve put people through. The money I’ve stolen, the memories I’ve missed, the lies I’ve told. All for what? To succumb to the demon in my own mind for a temporary pleasure.

  But what’s the point? Whether it’s wanting to take a hit or diving into a lake and not coming up for air, why do we humans torture ourselves so badly? Is it society's standards? Or are we trying to make ourselves feel something other than pain by just causing more pain? The temptation of the bliss of not feeling anything bad dangles in front of us, taunting, dripping a delicious sweetness we could only imagine tasting. Sure, there were happy times—but where are they now?

  I’ll tell you—they’re gone. Just like I want to be. I don’t want to keep fighting this battle. Do I want to be better? Of course, but I’m sick and tired of the constant war inside me. But this is the bed I’ve made. Now I gotta lie in it.

  The letter shakes in my hands, especially now that I know he read mine because he talked about the lake. He hasn’t mentioned my name, his name, or if he meant to write to me. Not knowing is kind of nice—freeing even. Dropping the letter, I rush to my bedroom and pull my notebook from the side table and grab my favorite pen––the hard plastic hovers above the paper, unsure of what to write before it spills out of me.

  How am I supposed to believe things will ever get better when the best part of me has been ripped from my life? ‘Give it time.’ ‘Pray.’ ‘You’ll get through this.’ Every time someone says something like this, a fire burns deep in my chest, and my teeth clench. I don’t want to give this any more of my time, because that time is when I feel the pain and anguish of adjusting to a life without my husband. I don’t want to have to ‘get through’ anything. I want to go back to the way things were—before. Why is any of it fair? Whether it’s loss or the lust of a sinful craving—both are traumatizing and unfulfilling. Nothing I do will ever replace him because it wasn’t his time. He wasn’t supposed to die, and I can see myself entering this new stage of grief where I’m just… angry. The littlest things can set me off, because if he were just here, I wouldn’t have to deal with any of this. I feel childish and selfish, but at the same time, I think I’ve deserved the right to be those things for a little bit. And if I haven’t, too damn bad. The holidays are coming up faster than I know it, and Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas were our favorite. But I’m dreading them. I don’t get to wake up in the middle of the night and kiss my husband. I don’t get to buy him gifts or celebrate traditions. No more hilarious couples Halloween costumes—nothing. It’s all gone. I don’t get to try and have the kids we talked about days before he died. All I have of him is a slab of concrete cemented in the ground with pretty, delicate engravings. And you know what?

  It’s not good enough.

  The pen falls from my fingers, and I notice the tears rolling down my cheeks. This is more therapeutic than any therapist I could ever go to. The subtle acknowledgment we have with each other while still venting about our shit without it being selfish is refreshing. I tuck the note away in an envelope, fill it out, stamp it and walk it to the mailbox for tomorrow's pick up. Relief settles through my muscles, but at the same time, an anxious excitement builds in my belly for the next one. It’s like having a pen pal again. An anonymous, depressing pen pal, and I’ve never been more grateful.

  feuillemort—the color of a dying leaf.

  Emery

  November

  There’s a knock at my door, and Mr. Thompson, the head boss on our floor, walks in with pursed lips. A pit of dread swallows me up from the look on his face, but I smile and welcome him into the office.

  “Hi, Mr. Thompson! How can I help you?”

  “Hi, Emery. Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure.” I close the book full of numbers in front of me before folding my hands together and giving him my attention.

  Mr. Thompson inhales deeply and holds it for a second before he lets it go, slightly shaking his salt and peppered hair. “Emery, we love you here. You were an exceptional receptionist and assistant. And I want to stress you’re not in trouble, but I do need to bring this to your attention. In the last week or so, there
have been numerous errors in the audit reports.”

  My cheeks burn red, and my throat tightens. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

  He gives me a sad smile. “Emery, I don’t expect perfection. You’re human, and you’ve just been through a catastrophic life change. What I wanted to do is see if you still wanted to work on these, or if you wanted to go back up front. Hell, if you need another week off, I’ll give it to you. You’ve earned it,” he smiles, “You don’t have to answer right now, but let me know in a day or two. Think about it. Relax, slow down, take a breath. We believe in you, and we’re here for you.”

  Smiling back, my chin quivers, and I mouth the words, “Thank you.”

  He winks and leaves the office. I’m so damn lucky to work at this place with such great people. I’d be lying if I said the pressure on my shoulders hadn’t doubled recently, that every morning I wake up, force myself to smile, get out of bed, and hold back the tears like I’m trying to do now. My fingers shake, and the blood rushes to my eyes as my teeth clench together. Not here, Emery. Not here. I count to three as I take a deep breath in, hold for three, and let out for three. It’s not helping. The tightness in my throat grips harder, and my chest starts heaving. My hand runs through my hair, grasping at the roots.

  “Get ahold of yourself, Emery Jean,” I whisper in my office. Standing, I pace back and forth in the small space behind my desk with my head down, trying to avoid any stares or attention through my glass door before I utterly lose it. After several minutes, I can finally take a breath. I grab my stuff and quickly rush to the restroom, taking a sigh of relief once I’m in the far stall. Only moments later, the door opens, and the sound of chatty women fill the room.

  “She’s made how many mistakes? And he keeps giving her a pass, it’s ridiculous. Guess who has to fix it? Me,” I hear Vanessa’s whiny voice, and my face screws into a snarl. I’ve never liked her and always complained to Derek about how rude she is.

  The other girl nervously giggles, and just as my hand reaches for the stall handle, I pause when Vanessa continues, “I mean, come on. Her husband died like what? Six months ago? Good God, get over it already.”

  My heart drops into my stomach and the breath leaves my lungs as my back hits the wall. I slowly sink to the floor, head in my hands as they leave the restroom.

  “Not here. Get up. Write to your boss and go home.” My chest rises as I suck in a big breath of stale air and stand to leave. When I walk out, the girls are right outside the door, and when Vanessa’s eyes meet mine, hers grow huge as she realizes her mistake. My feet stop as I stare at her, the stern glare on my face saying everything that’s needed. She’s not worth the effort of words, so I move my feet back to my office, unlock my computer, and write to Mr. Thompson.

  To: Mr. Jason Thompson

  From: Mrs. Emery Sutton

  Subject: Time

  Message:

  Hi, Mr. Thompson,

  Thank you for your professional, yet personable approach to me today. I am aware my work is far from the bar I set prior to my current circumstances. I apologize, truly, I do. With the holidays coming up, I think my mind is getting a bit overwhelmed and heavy. Normally, I wouldn’t take anyone up on additional time off, but if the offer still stands, I think I should take the rest of this week off and come back fresh on Monday.

  Again, thank you. Your sincerity is the reason people love to work here.

  Emery Sutton

  My inbox has a new message within minutes.

  From: Mr. Jason Thompson

  To: Mrs. Emery Sutton

  Subject: Re: Time

  Message:

  Emery,

  Next week is Thanksgiving. We are only open Monday and Tuesday. Come back after the holiday. Take your time. You are a valued employee here, and we all want the best for you.

  Take care,

  Mr. Thompson

  I reply to thank him one more time before putting everything away, pack my bag, and head home early. My eyes flick to our favorite coffee shop Derek and I would frequently visit, Mezzo, and I pull in without a second thought. But after parking, I can’t move to get out of my car, the onslaught of memories hitting me one by one. Tomorrow. I’m going to come here tomorrow, and I will go in to get coffee. It’s just coffee. My racing heart calms as I pull out of the parking lot and head home. Once I’m in front of my home, I abruptly press onto the brake, put the car into park at the end of my driveway, and stare at my mailbox.

  “Just get it out of your dang system, Emery.” Unbuckling my seatbelt, I drag my feet to the mailbox and open it. My eyes lay on a white envelope from a PO Box, and my heart races a million miles per hour. In a rush, I quickly grab the rest of the mail––partially out of excitement, partially because it’s freezing outside––I get back in my car and pull into the garage. I sprint into my house, tripping over the welcome mat as I kick off my heels and throw my pea coat to the ground. My fingers eagerly rip open the stubborn envelope, and my eyes can’t devour the words fast enough.

  I messed up, and I’ve been punishing myself every day for weeks because of it. I thought I had the willpower to push past, but I gave in. I thought holding the needle in my hand would give me a sense of power, like I could overcome it—like I was bigger than my addiction. But I got too cocky. Soon, ‘I can overcome it’ turned to ‘I can handle it’ turned to ‘I can manage it’ turned to ‘I fucked up thinking I could have any semblance of control over this.’ The moment that small needle pierced the top layer of my skin, I was a goner. A slave to a substance that rules my life. A torturous yet euphoric bliss pulsing through my veins, leaving me almost fulfilled, but thirsty for more. Always more. My brother and my family are already so disappointed in me for fucking up again. Why do I keep fucking up? Why is it just me and not my brother? The taste of liquor or the smell of smoke doesn’t send him spiraling like it does me, and it’s not fair.

  I went to a quick two-week recovery, just to get my mind straight again. So now I’m close to three weeks sober. I don’t want to keep messing up. So, here I go again.

  One day at a time.

  His words soothe a spot in my heart I didn’t know was burned. Not that he slipped up, but that he went through something for a few weeks, and that’s why he didn’t write. My heart cracks for him. The constant lust and craving of something that brings out the worst in you—I can’t imagine. I only have a constant lust and craving for the husband I’ll never touch or speak to again. My lethargic body drags inside the house and plops on the couch. Scrolling through my phone, I order dinner in—cooking is the last thing I want to do. The background noise that’s normally tuned out is loud throughout my silent home. The fridge, the heater, the wind against the sliding glass door—it all reminds me it’s just me here. Screw it. I unzip my skirt and blouse, chucking the clothes to the floor and stand in my living room in just my bra and panties. It’s oddly freeing, rummaging through the kitchen cupboards in hardly any clothing in the middle of November.

  “Where are you?” I whisper as I’m half inside my cupboards looking for the waffle maker. “Come to mama.” My devious plan sets into motion as I pop open the can of cinnamon rolls and cook them in the waffle maker. Drizzling all the icing on them, I set them on the plate and head to the couch, but the doorbell catches me off guard.

  “Oh, crap!” I race to my bedroom to put on clothes, remembering I ordered take-out. I throw on one of Derek’s shirts and trip on my shorts as I pull them on, hurrying to the front door.

  “Sorry! Thanks!” The delivery dude looks at me funny, but when I hand him a ten-dollar tip, he smiles and leaves.

  I pile the food on the kitchen island. “Derek!—” My sentence stops as soon as it starts. The habit of calling for him when dinner’s ready hit me like it was a normal weekday evening. “I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.” As I say it, dread pools in my veins, but I do my best to push past it as I make a plate to sit on the couch with my cinnamon waffle rolls, pasta, and my anonymous letter as my c
ompanions. The thought of Derek reminds me, I need to call his mom and check-in, and I would rather get the call over with sooner than later. It’s not that I don’t like her—I do. Julia and Derek were never close, she left when he was young and didn’t fight for custody, so he has seen her very seldomly.

  The line rings several times, and I’m about to hang up, but she answers. “Hello?” Her professional voice takes me off guard.

  “Hi, Julia. It’s Emery.”

  She pauses a moment before she talks again, “Oh! Hi, Emery. What can I do for you?”

  See, no maternal bone in her body, but it makes me silently giggle this time. “I was just thinking about you and wanted to check-in. See how you were doing…”

  She hesitates, and for a second, I wonder if she hung up. “Well, I’m good. I’m good.”

  Awkward.

  “That’s great to hear. Just thought I’d see…” Spare me now. “I’ll let you go, you’re probably busy.”

  Julia sighs into the phone. “I’m sorry, Emery. I’m not good at this.” Her sincerity takes me off guard, and I soften at her confession.

  “I’m not good at life without Derek. So, I know what you mean.” I chuckle to play it off, but she knows I mean every word.

  “I think about you a lot. How hard this must be for you. I would’ve called, but I just don’t know what to say other than I’m sorry.” This is the most she’s spoken to me about something real since I’ve known her. Typically, it’s a sentence or two about a couple of random topics, and that’s it.

  I smile even though she can’t see me. “That’s the nice thing with me. You don’t have to say anything because I see the intention. The thought is enough.”