Until the Day I Die(4)

I have lost my husband. I am losing my daughter.

The urge to cry is sudden, sharp, and overwhelming, so I turn back and aim a huge grin at my daughter. “Come on,” I say cheerfully. “Let’s make a dent in the universe.” I yank up my end of the bike, charging up the steps. I can feel her behind me, tripping to keep up.

We’re almost to the fourth floor when Ben catches up to us. “Y’all should’ve waited for me.” He’s his usual happy, open-faced self, loaded down with a couple of plastic trunks full of clothes from the truck. He continues past us, then is back in less than a minute. He hoists the bike over one shoulder and takes the stairs two at a time, Shorie and I falling into line behind him. A crowd of girls presses up behind us, and I find myself jostled closer to him, so close I can smell sweat and soap and whatever detergent he washed his T-shirt with. His back is a really nice one—long and lean and muscled—and it tapers down into loose-fitting jeans.

I focus elsewhere: the dorm doors decorated with whiteboards and name tags and Auburn posters. I’ve known Ben (and Sabine—there was never Ben without Sabine) for thirty years. In those years there have, admittedly, been a handful of times when I considered what it would be like to be with him. There would be this flash between us, a moment that only lasted half a second, and a thought would flit through my head—There’s something . . .

But those flashes were like the impulses you got when you stood at the edge of a cliff and felt that illogical urge to step over the edge. Easy enough to ignore. Especially when Perry was alive. Now that he’s gone, they fill me with shame. I may feel lonely, but I’m appalled at the idea of even touching another man, much less my best friend’s husband.

In Shorie’s room, Ben swings the bike against the wall, claps his hands, and rubs them together gleefully like he’s never had so much fun. “That’s your grandmother’s old bike?” he asks Shorie. “Damn thing’s a millstone.”

“It’s a beach cruiser,” she says.

I resist the urge to compare the bike to Perry’s mother, Gigi, millstonewise. I’m the adult here, after all. It’s up to me to keep things positive, even if it kills me.

“Bathroom’s through that door,” I say to Ben. “Knock before you go in.”

Shorie, Ben, and I take turns washing up, edging politely around each other. When Ben says he’s heading back to the truck for another load, Shorie turns to her bookshelves. She should be tossing confetti and dancing in circles around Ben. He canceled whatever weekend plans he had—work, hanging out with Sabine—and volunteered his truck. His reward? Being treated to a teenage girl’s icy silence in the back seat of the cab the two hours down to Auburn.

“Do you want me to make up your bed?” I ask.

“Okay.” She flips open the top of the bin with all her books.

I lay the foam pad over the thin mattress and wrestle the purple Pottery Barn comforter out of its plastic bag.

“Hey, where are the sheets?” I ask.

“The what?”

I breathe deeply. “The sheets. For the bed.”

“I don’t know. Didn’t you pack them?”

I rummage through a couple of boxes. The sheets are stuffed into an actual suitcase, crammed beneath Shorie’s collection of Converse sneakers, clearly stuff she packed. I decide not to think about the germs.

“When’s Adelia getting here?” I ask.

“I’m not sure.”

“She didn’t say?”

“I never called her.”

I straighten. “Shorie. She’s your roommate.”

“I was busy. You get that, Mom, right? It’s hard to do all the stuff you should do when you’re busy, busy, busy.”

She slams a couple of books onto a shelf. I snap the top sheet over the bed. So many unspoken words simmer between us, but if I speak up now, it’s going to turn into a battle. This is one topic we’ve covered thoroughly.

In March, after Perry died, his share of Jax’s stock reverted to me, along with the new weight of major shareholder, and shifted everything into high gear. Granted, for a startup, we were doing well—making enough money to cover salaries and also roll some cash back into the company. But we were nowhere near millionaires, not yet. We always needed to be raising more capital to safeguard our income—and it was technically still my job to attend these startup pitch events and scout potential investors. But, honestly, a lot of what I was doing was unnecessary.

Ben brought up the subject, once, of my taking a break. But after I pointedly changed the subject, he never mentioned it again. At Jax, as I mapped out some wild monetization or scaling model for the next five years or reported on the latest habit loop design or A/B split testing at another meeting I’d called, I’d notice my partners’ faces soften with pity. It was obvious they were placating me, showing up and sitting with polite smiles on their faces while I made up new reasons not to hand over the reins.

And then, early this summer, it occurred to me what I was doing. The goal I had been unconsciously moving toward ever since Perry’s death. I was getting the company ready to sell. Preparing to let Jax go.

This is why Shorie’s extra mad at me, as is Ben, even though he’s doing a pretty good job pretending he’s not. And I understand. None of us had planned on selling this soon, but none of us had planned on Perry’s dying either. And we made a pact. We agreed that when we sold, we’d all move on.