On Second Thought(53)

“Take your time,” she said, getting into the car and checking her phone.

Jonathan came around to my side of the car and looked at the pavement, a lock of hair flopping over his forehead as if he were a Regency duke.

His hair had flopped the night Nathan died, too.

“You need a haircut,” I snapped.

He looked up, startled.

“Sorry,” I said. “What is it, Jonathan?”

He lowered his gaze to my chin. Probably I had a pimple there. My fingers twitched, wanting to find out. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention my presence here tonight.”

“At Alcoholics Anonymous?” I suggested.

He didn’t blink.

“NA, then?”

Still nothing.

“I won’t say anything. I assume it’s the divorce group.”

His face didn’t change. Then again, it never did. “Have you spoken to Eric yet?” he asked. “I would very much like a commitment from him.”

I would very much like? People didn’t talk like that in real life. “No, I haven’t. He’s on my shit list at the moment.”

“I thought so. I sent him a message this afternoon after your early departure. We’re meeting him in the city next Friday for drinks. Eric, you and I.”

“What? No, we’re not!”

He looked to the left, his jaw tightening. “Ainsley, you petitioned very hard to get The Cancer Chronicles linked to Hudson Lifestyle. Now—finally—people are reading that ridiculous blog. Traffic on the entire site today was up 9,000 percent. If you’d like to keep your job—indeed, if you’d like to do your job, which would be refreshing—I strongly suggest you make yourself available. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I was busy sputtering and therefore unable to answer. It was probably best... I didn’t want to cuss my boss out—but how dare he? I didn’t want to see Eric!

Except I did. I wanted to see the old Eric, the one who loved me and didn’t think I was a corpse.

Jonathan had already walked away. I got in my car and slammed the door.

“You okay?” Kate asked.

“Peachy,” I said, started the car and headed for Kate’s. A bath in that soaking tub was definitely on the agenda. And a nice violent television show. Game of Thrones.

I was in the mood for beheadings.





Chapter Fourteen

Kate

I woke up the day after the grief group with a glorious revelation.

I didn’t have to be sad anymore! I’d been so sad these past few weeks, shaking in my sleep, for God’s sake, scared and stunned, feeling like a cannonball had gone through my chest and taken out everything.

But I could be done with that. My duty was fulfilled. Already, the grief group had worked wonders.

Symbolically, I was lying in the middle of our huge bed. My huge bed. No more sleeping on the left side. Also, the sun was streaming through the windows, and I could see the Japanese cherry tree, laden with impossibly pretty blossoms, gently swaying in the wind.

The mourning period was over.

Those others in the group last night—Leo losing his pregnant wife, poor Bree with the little ones, Janette watching her husband waste away, George after forty-three years—they had it rough. They had processing and stages and stuff.

Me, let’s face it. I’d known Nathan only nine months. It was deeply sad, but it didn’t have to be crippling. I’d be noble and, um, clean, that would be great. I’d get back to showering every day, and I’d go back to enjoying single life again.

I’d be so good, so kind, such a role model. My ex-cons (who’d sent a joint card, by the way) would love me all the more, and teenage girls would look up to me as an example of a life well lived, a person worth knowing. I’d be dignified yet also the life of the party (not that I’d ever been that, but it could happen). People would hear that I’d been widowed and be amazed. Kate? But she’s so happy! She’s so giving and wonderful and fun!

I lay there a minute, picturing this, feeling better for the first time since Nathan died.

Then I felt the familiar warm rush and accompanying cramps in my upper legs, flung off the covers and ran into the bathroom. Jazz hands didn’t work. I flapped, jumped, the lights finally went on and I yanked down my sock monkey pajama bottoms.

My period. And not just any period, either, the Biblical period, the is this a period or did I accidentally sever my femoral artery period, the pajama-destroyer, the burn-the-mattress, and God! It was so unfair!

I wasn’t pregnant. I wasn’t pregnant. I really wasn’t pregnant, and the throat-squeaking began. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Oh, little nonbaby, I’m so sorry! My breath slammed in and out of me, hehn-hehn-hehn-hehn. My arms and legs buzzed with tingling so intense it hurt.

I was probably dying. My heart raced and zipped, and my vision started to gray, and I knew, I just knew, my life was ending, and anxiety and fear engulfed me in a cold wave. What about my nieces and nephew? Sadie wouldn’t remember me! Would I see Nathan in heaven?

I bent double on the toilet. Don’t let me die here, I begged my vague higher power. Please don’t let the paramedics find me like this. I don’t mind dying, just not in a pool of menstrual blood with my sock monkey pajamas around my ankles.

In for three, can’t hold anything, can’t think, jeez, listen to me, hehn-hehn-hehn-hehn. In for three, hold for three, out, oh, Nathan, I’m so sorry I can’t even have your baby and I wanted one so bad and I miss you, I miss you so, so much, I want you to be here, blinking those long blond lashes at me, saying something sweet, please come back, please, I just can’t do this, please help me. My hands fisted in my hair as I struggled not to list to one side.