Bring Me Back(31)

I push off the covers and head downstairs to the kitchen. I know there’s no chance of me sleeping. Once in the kitchen, I turn on one set of lights and rifle through the cabinets. I find the packet of hot chocolate and set about making it. I grab a mug and dump in the packet and hot water. I stir the mixture around, the spoon clinking against the side of the mug. I add whip cream, a little bit of chocolate syrup and some chocolate shavings. Extravagant? Yes, but it helps quiet my mind.

I pull out one of the barstools and take a seat. I take a tentative sip. It sucks. Seriously, it tastes like dirty dishwater—not that I know what that tastes like. I drink it anyway, though.

I hear footsteps and I look up to see my dad shuffling into the room in his robe and slippers. His thin hair is mussed around his head, and his eyes are tired.

“I thought I heard ya, Kid.” His voice is thick with sleep. “What are you doing up?”

I shrug. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“What’s that?” He nods at my mug.

“Hot chocolate. It tastes awful, but …”

He laughs and shakes his head. “But you wanted it anyway,” he finishes for me.

I nod. “Yep.” I take another sip and wince.

“Give me that, Kid.” He swipes the mug from me. “If there’s anything your old man can make it’s hot chocolate, or have you forgotten?”

I smile and shake my head. “No, of course not.”

Hot chocolate late at night—granted, not at one in the morning—was something my dad and I cherished. We didn’t do it often, maybe once a month, but it was our time. He’d ask me about school, and I’d ask him about work. Then we’d usually end up talking about my friends. He’d listen with rapt attention, even though he was probably bored out of his mind.

He dumps my pathetic attempt at hot chocolate out in the sink and grabs a pan. He places it on the stove, adding milk, cocoa powder, and a little bit of sugar. He stirs the mixture as it heats.

“Talk to me, Kid. No one’s up at this hour unless their mind’s full.”

I trace the pattern in the granite countertop. “I was wondering what I did wrong,” I whisper. “To deserve this,” I add.

He continues to stir, but turns to look at me. “You didn’t do nothin’. You’re a good girl, Blaire. Things like this … they just happen.”

“It’s my fault,” I cry. “I know it is.” I inhale a shaky breath and look away. I don’t want my dad to see me break down—I mean, he already has about a million times, but I don’t want to add another one to the list.

He finishes stirring and adds the mixture to two mugs. He tops it with whipped cream and marshmallows. He hands me my cup and then sits down beside me.

“You’ve got to stop this, Kid. You’re goin’ down a slippery path. You can’t blame yourself for this. The only person at fault is the guy that was drinkin’ and drivin’. He did this, not you. But you can’t blame him, either. Blame gets you nowhere in life. You have to move on, Blaire.”

I shake my head. “It’s too soon.”

He shrugs. “Maybe so, but you have to move on eventually. I hate to burst your bubble, Kid, but he ain’t comin’ back. He’s gone. But you, you’re still here. You have to live your life—he’d want that for you. You don’t need to feel guilty for that.”

“I need more time,” I whisper.

“You keep sayin’ that—” he shrugs “—but I don’t see you doin’ anything to get better.” He wraps his weathered hands around the mug. “I think you should talk to someone. A therapist.”

I roll my eyes. “You sound like Mom.”

“Your momma’s a wise woman. You should listen to her more often—but you’re stubborn like me.” He bumps my shoulder with his. “Sorry about that, Kid. She’s right when she says we’re exactly alike.”

I soften. “That’s not a bad thing, Dad.”

“Sometimes it is.” He stands and empties his mug. “Goodnight, Kid.” He kisses my forehead as he passes. “Get some sleep.”

“I’ll try,” I whisper, but he’s gone.





Stage Four: Depression



I dress robotically.

Slacks.

Blouse.

Sweater.

Heels.

Necklace.

Watch.

Bracelets.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My hair has grown longer, and it’s now past my shoulders, but the once lustrous brown locks are now dull and lifeless. My eyes are much the same. My cheeks are still hollowed, and my lips have thinned. I look like I’ve aged ten years in a month and a half. Stress and grief will do that to you.

I grab my purse and walk out of my closet. I’m meeting a client at a local hotel so we can check it out before booking any space for an event.

When I step into the kitchen, my parents are both sitting at the kitchen table with a spread of breakfast food. My dad has a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose and a newspaper held between his hands. He must’ve gone out to get it because Ben and I don’t get one.

I mean I don’t get one.

“I made you breakfast,” my mom smiles cheerily. She’s ecstatic to see me up and dressed, ready for work. It’s all a fa?ade, though. My insides are gray and stormy and the effort to get ready has nearly drained me. I only hope that I can make it through this meeting before I give up.