Bring Me Back(30)

My dad appears in the bathroom and grabs my hair, holding it back while I’m sick.

“Jeez, I’m sorry, Kid.” He rubs my back, trying to soothe me. “I guess I shouldn’t have pushed you—was it really that bad?”

I finish retching and he lets go of my hair. I stand and rinse out my mouth.

“No, Dad, I think I’m getting sick.” I lean against the counter, suddenly feeling weak. I bend down and grab a cloth from the cabinet and dampen it with cool water. I press it to my forehead and take deep breaths through my mouth.

“Blaire …” He hesitates in the doorway, seeming unsure if he wants to continue what he has to say.

“What?” I prompt.

“Nothing.” He waves a hand dismissively.

“Dad?” I raise a brow. “Spit it out.”

He sways slightly—something he only does when he’s super nervous. “Do you think maybe you’re pregnant?”

Shutters come down over my eyes, and I give him the most withering glare I can muster. “We both know that’s not possible.”

He shrugs. “Those things are wrong all the time. Maybe it was too early or somethin’. I don’t know.”

“I’m not pregnant, dad,” I say harshly. The last thing I need right now is false hope. My heart can only handle so much heartbreak. “I just have a bug or something, that’s all.”

He nods. “Fine. Sure.” He doesn’t look convinced.

“Seriously,” I say, moving past him and back into my office. I gag at the smell of the sandwich. I pick up the plate and turn around, practically shoving it at him. “Thanks for trying, Dad, but get this out of here.”

“Is there somethin’ else I can make you?”

My stomach rolls. “Nope, I’m good.”

He looks crestfallen. I feel bad, because I know he tried—there’s nothing wrong with the sandwich, just me.

He leaves me alone and I return to my emails. I set up a few meetings with potential clients. As I work, I bite my nails—a habit I gave up long ago, but it’s suddenly returned with the amount of stress I feel. I hope my extended absence hasn’t ruined my business. I know there’s nothing I can do about it now, so I have to take everything in stride.

When I’m all caught up I shut down my computer and turn off the desk light. The chandelier in the center of the room still shines, though. I close my eyes, smiling lightly at the memory.

“Are you sure you want that gaudy thing?” Ben asked, reaching up to touch one of the dangling clear jewels.

“Yes,” I laughed. “It’s perfect.”

He made a face. “It doesn’t seem very you.”

“I want it for my office,” I said defensively. “I want that space to be different.”

He shrugged. “Okay, it’s your office. We’ll get it if that’s what you want.”

“It is.”

He wrapped his arms around me and kissed my forehead. “You’re awfully sure about that chandelier—how do you know it’s the one?”

I raised my brows. I knew he wasn’t talking about the chandelier anymore.

“I just know,” I whispered. “When it’s right, it’s right. Why question it?”

He nodded. “Good answer.”

I open my eyes, and they’re now clouded with tears. That memory feels like it happened a lifetime ago, when it was really only two years ago. That girl, the one who was so happy and in love, she’s gone.

I don’t think she’s coming back.





Stage Three: Bargaining

I lie in bed, staring at the smooth white ceilings. There’s not a blemish on the surface. Not a crack or speck. Nothing to look at it. Nothing but whiteness. It’s after one in the morning, and I’ve been in bed for hours, sleeping off and on, but now I’m wide awake and sleep is elusive.

I’ve been crying off and on. I’ve grown used to the random bouts of tears that overtake me every day. It’s something I’m going to have to live with.

“Please,” I beg, staring at the ceiling, “I’ll do anything, just bring him back. Anything, I mean it.” A tear slides down the side of my face and gets lost in the sheets. Sheets that no longer smell like Ben. When I want to smell him I have to sneak into our closet and smell his shirts. My mom is urging me to donate his stuff, but I don’t want to. Not yet. It’s too soon.

“I love him,” I continue, “so much. I’m lost without him. Bring him back to me.” I choke on a sob. “I’m a good person, right?” I question. “Why would you do this to me? What did I do to deserve this? Whatever it was, I take it back. I’ll be a better person. Please. If someone had to die, it should’ve been me, not Ben. He was good. A better person than I’ll ever be. He didn’t deserve this.”

I cover my face with my hands and sob. My hands grow wet with my tears, and my eyes begin to feel puffy. I roll over and clutch the pillow Ben used to sleep on. His head hasn’t touched that pillow in over a month.

He’s been dead for five weeks.

Even thinking the word makes me want to throw up. It still doesn’t feel real. I feel like I’m trapped in a nightmare that’s never going to end. I guess in a way I am.