Best Friends Don't Kiss(90)

“A song every day? For six months straight?” She snorts. “That’s, like…” She pauses, and I already know the answer to the question she’s trying to calculate in her head.

“One hundred and eighty songs.” I smile down at her. “Ace, for the next six months, not a single day will go by without you knowing that I’m thinking about you,” I whisper and press a lingering kiss to her lips. “NASA might have been the dream, but you’re my world. Never forget that.”




Surprising October

Ava



Luke: Ace, I hope you have a fan-fucking-tastic time with Desi and Claire this weekend. Thinking about you always. Missing you like crazy. Loving you madly.



Luke: Ava’s Daily Song: “Dream A Little Dream of Me,” The Mamas & The Papas.



I smile when I read Luke’s latest message and daily song on the secure platform that’s allowed us to stay in contact over the past four months. In what’s become my daily routine, I download the song to the Spotify playlist I’ve been using to collect all the tracks he’s sent me.

I turn up the volume on my laptop and listen.

It starts out soft. Slow. Entrancing, even. And by the time the song builds and the lyrics fill my head, tears stream down my cheeks. They’re happy. They’re sad. They’re bittersweet.

God, I miss him.

Four. Whole. Months.

That’s how long my husband has been gone, in freaking space.

One hundred and twenty days without him here with me.

To say it’s hard is an understatement. Honestly, I was doing okay for the first month or so, but these last two months have hit me kind of hard. I feel tired all the damn time. I cry at really weird, random things. And I’ve resorted to eating my feelings a little too much.

I’m doing my best to stay focused on my paintings and running the galleries, but when I come home at night to an empty house, it can be a tad bit overwhelming.

Thankfully, though, my best gal pals will be arriving here any minute to spend the week with me in Houston. Their boisterous and always fun presence will be a much-needed distraction.

Once the song ends, I let it roll over to the beginning of the playlist, and one by one, all of Luke’s songs start to fill the quiet of our living room.

First, “You Are the Best Thing” by Ray LaMontagne.

Followed by “Everyday” by Slade.

Then “Waltz of the Flowers” by Tchaikovsky.

Next thing I know, the stupid tears are back, streaming down my cheeks in steady waves, and all I can think to myself is, Damn, girl, you are emotional.

Once I turn off the music and manage to get it together, several persistent knocks resound from the front door, and I waste no time jogging toward the entry and swinging it open.

“Oh my gosh, you’re here!” I exclaim when I see the smiling faces on the other side of the door.

“Ava!” Claire shouts.

“We have arrived!” Desi exclaims.

I squeal, and then, when they pull me into a tight group hug, I start freaking crying again.

“Ava?” Desi asks, and Claire’s face immediately morphs from excited to concerned.

“Ignore me,” I say, gesturing with a nonchalant hand. “I’m fine. I promise.”

Desi furrows her brow. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Promise.” I laugh through my tears. “Lately, I’ve just been crazy emotional.”

Eventually, I wave them both inside and help them get cozy in the house.

First, to the guest rooms where they’ll both be sleeping for the next few days.

And then, into the kitchen so we can gab and chat and just catch up.

“Have no fear, I have brought the finest bottle of Riesling that Texas has to offer and the one wine you’ll actually drink, Ava. Purchased at a gas station about a mile from your house,” Desi teases as she unscrews the cap off a bottle of wine and begins to pour it into three glasses. “One for me, one for Claire, one for Ava.”

But when she slides the glass my way, the smell of the alcohol is so repugnant, it makes me gag.

“Ugh. I think there’s something wrong with this wine,” I say and move the glass away from my face. “Seriously, it smells fucking awful.”

And then I gag again.

And again.

Until the gagging becomes too intense that I have to sprint to the hall bathroom and freaking puke.

“Do not even take a sip of that wine!” I shout toward the kitchen as I stand up from the toilet and splash cold water on my face. “Just the damn fumes from it made me puke!”

But when I make my way back into the kitchen, both Desi and Claire are just staring at me.

“What?” I question. “What’s wrong?”

“Ava, honey,” Claire begins, “when’s the last time you had your period?”

“Excuse me?” I ask on a laugh. “That’s a bit of a ridiculous question, don’t you think?”

“Uh, no.” Desi snorts. “You’re all emotional and weepy and puking, and your boobs look crazy big right now.”

“That’s because I’ve been eating my feelings.”

Claire shakes her head. “Honey, I don’t think that’s what’s going on here.”