Bring Me Back(44)

She laughs. “Okay, then.”

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out to see a text from Casey.

<b>Casey: Can u do lunch 2morrow with the girls?

Me: Yes.

Casey: ? Great! You know the place. ;)

</b>I set my phone aside. “I’m having lunch with the girls tomorrow,” I announce. My parents exchange a look from across the kitchen. “What?” I ask.

“Glad to see you acting normal, Kid. You might not need us around much longer.”

Panic seizes me. Not too long ago I would’ve been thrilled for my parents to head back home to Florida, but now I need them here.

“Don’t get any ideas,” I say.

They exchange another look. I don’t want to know what that one means, so I don’t ask.

My mom finishes making our breakfast sandwiches and sets the plates in front of us. She even brings over the carton of orange juice and glasses. I make a mental note to get her something nice like a gift card to her favorite store. She deserves it. She’s kept this house running while I’ve fallen apart.

I thank her and dig into my sandwich. For the first time in weeks I actually have an appetite. I’m not sure if my lack of one has been due to being pregnant or a part of the grieving process. Maybe it’s a bit of both.

I eat every morsel, and my mom grins at my empty plate. “Want another one?” she asks, all too eager to hop up and make it.

“No.” I wave her down before she can jump out of her seat. “I’m full, but that tasted great.”

“If you change your mind and want another one, all you have to do is ask,” she assures me.

“Thanks, Mom.” I stand and pick up my plate, rinsing it off in the sink before sticking it in the dishwasher. “I’m going to go work for a bit.”

“But it’s Saturday,” my mom says, a wrinkle forming in her brow.

“I know, but I haven’t exactly been working consistently and I need to make up for it.”

“Oh, that makes sense.” Her frown leaves, replaced once more with a smile.

I hug my dad as I pass and kiss my mom’s cheek before heading up to my office.

Today, so far, is a good day. I haven’t had many of those in the last two months.

I lose myself in my work for a few hours, and I’m amazed by how much I’m able to get done. By the time I finish up for the day, I’ve made a decent dent in planning two events and I’m all caught up on emails with clients and potential ones. It’s nice to feel on top of things for a change. I don’t know how much longer it might last, but I take this as a small victory, because that’s what it is. One small win in a battle to heal.





Today is not going to be a good day. I wake up and immediately want to go back to sleep. I don’t want to have to get out of bed and deal. The empty space beside me in bed suddenly feels ice cold and as vast as the ocean. I stretch my fingers across the cool expanse, reaching, searching, hoping. But Ben’s not there and he’ll never be there again.

I’ll never get to wake up to his smiling face while he says, “Morning, beautiful,” and I complain about my stinky breath when he tries to kiss me. He always said, “I don’t care,” and kissed me anyway.

I swallow thickly, and a tear leaks from the corner of my eye, falling onto the sheet. I roll to my side and close my eyes. If I think hard enough, I can picture him in my mind. Tousled blond hair, soft but firm lips, wide grin, and bright-blue eyes. But his voice … I’m forgetting what his voice sounded like, and that scares me more than anything. I don’t want to forget anything about Ben. Not ever.

“I miss you,” I whisper. “So f*cking much. It still doesn’t feel real,” I admit. “I keep feeling like someone’s going to jump out from behind a wall and say, ‘Haha, got you.’”

My eyes are still closed, and the Ben I see in my mind laughs at me.

I unconsciously scoot closer, but instead of being met with warm, inviting arms, there’s just sheets and blankets. I slowly peel open my eyes and take in the emptiness of the bed once more.

No amount of imagining is going to bring him back. I wish it was that simple.

I roll back over onto my back and cover my face with the crook of my arm. I don’t want to get out of bed. I don’t want to go about my day like everything’s okay when it’s not.

And then, like a swift kick in the stomach, I feel like I’m going to throw up.

I throw the covers off my body and run to the bathroom, collapsing in front of the toilet.

Morning sickness. Lovely.

I have to laugh, though, at the irony of it. All I wanted was to stay in bed and mope and my unborn baby is having none of it. Their dad was the same way—always pushing me. I feel like this is my baby’s silent way to encourage me to get up and deal.

“You’re already bossing Mommy around,” I say when I stand up and flush the toilet. “Your daddy would be proud.”

I brush my teeth and wipe my face off.

When I look in the mirror, I want to cringe. I look exhausted despite getting a full night’s sleep. I look haggard and I’m not even thirty-years-old. I know I’m supposed to meet the girls for lunch, but I find myself coming up with every excuse possible in my mind—they all sound ridiculous.

I glance longingly through the doorway at my unmade bed. It calls my name, but I don’t allow myself to succumb to the temptation.