It was hard enough seeing the sympathetic faces of my family and close friends in Maui as they heard the news. But now that I was home, I realized I was going to have to go through it all over again. And not just with the people in my everyday life, but also with the friends I interacted with every day online. I was quick to like their pictures and checkins, and even though I hadn’t had a live conversation with most of them in years, I still felt strangely invested in their lives—and was terrified to let them see that I wasn’t the carefree girl who loved to shop at Target and play Candy Crush.
As long as Jules was here I could put off dealing with reality and continue to ignore the questions from curious people wondering why I hadn’t gotten married. But eventually she’d have to go back to her life—to cheering on the sidelines of Evan’s soccer games and posting pictures of her latest professional chocolate masterpieces on foodgawker. And then where would that leave me?
The alert turns out to be a text from my mom checking in to see if I made it home safely and asking if I want to join her for a power walk to clear my mind.
I look up from my phone. “It’s my mom.”
“Let me guess—she thinks a hefty workout will cheer you up?”
“Yep,” I answer, pausing to write her and say thanks for the offer, but I’m too tired to go hiking with ankle weights and I’ll call her tomorrow instead. “Her answer to everything—burning calories!” I take a long sip of my wine, deciding that for the rest of the night, I’m going to try my best not to think about why I’m sitting on an Adirondack chair in my backyard instead of lounging on a beach chair in the tropical sun.
? ? ?
There’s that split second first thing in the morning when your eyes slowly open and your mind is still empty and your heart is still light. It’s that moment when you are blissfully unaware of the pain that is inside of you—the dreams that danced in your head the night before still seeming possible. And then you see your best friend passed out on the floor, her mouth hanging open slightly, and it unleashes the memory. And instantly, like a wave of nausea, reality hits.
I force my legs out from under me and pull a sweatshirt and baseball cap from the hall closet, too emotionally drained to care about what I look like—to worry if my bad breath and raccoon eyes will scare off anyone I might run into while out in public. I grab a book from my packed floor-to-ceiling bookshelf and leave Jules a note that I’m going to Starbucks, and after I close the door behind me, I rest my back against it and squeeze the tears away.
Last night, I’d told Jules I wasn’t ready to walk into the master bedroom, let alone sleep in the bed, so she’d swiftly grabbed a fitted sheet and tucked it around the cushions of the couch and covered me with a blanket as my eyelids became heavy from the wine. “You’re a good mom,” I’d said just before I drifted off to sleep.
Walking the two blocks to the coffee shop, I resist the memories flying to the surface of Max and me, walking hand in hand down the same street just last weekend. I’d been venting about the florist informing me that due to an inexplicable ordering snafu, it wouldn’t be possible to get the exact color and type of exotic orchid I’d wanted to surprise my mother, my stepmom, and Max’s mom with on the morning of the ceremony. As I’d clamored on about finding another person to handle the flowers, Max hadn’t said a word, which, at the time, hadn’t seemed that unusual since he’d been leaving most of the wedding decisions up to me. But now I wonder if his silence meant he hadn’t been listening, or hadn’t cared, because he knew he wouldn’t be there anyway. I shake my head slightly—neither of those scenarios fit the man I’d loved for the past three years.
After I order my coffee, I sink into an oversized chair in the corner and open the novel I brought with me, the words blurring on the page. I shut it quickly and pull my phone out of my pocket delicately, like it’s a loaded gun. I rub the sleep still wedged in the corners of my eyes and stare at the screen, instinctively looking around as if Jules might walk in at any second and scold me. And she’d be right. I shouldn’t go on Facebook. Or Instagram. Or even Google Plus. Because there’s no chance I’m ready to make an appearance on social media—to officially change my status back to single, and then explain why.
But like a bad habit, I still crave my news feed, and soon find my eyes locked on a picture of Max and me posing with beers in the pool at the Four Seasons the day before our guests were scheduled to begin arriving. Ignoring the flood of messages filling up my timeline and in-box, I click to update my status and stare at the empty space, wishing I could find the words to make my life seem right again. But for the first time since I joined Facebook years ago, I’m speechless. “I wish there was a status update that could fix this mess,” I mumble before slipping my phone back into my pocket.
I head back up to the counter to order a mocha for Jules before going home. I pay quickly and lean against the counter as the barista, a striking woman with caramel-colored hair and chocolate eyes, wields the espresso machine expertly. I let out a loud sigh as I wait, and she looks up and smiles.
“In a hurry?” she asks.
“Not really,” I admit, embarrassed she caught my annoyance.