Moving into the kitchen, I open the refrigerator and take out the makings for a dinner salad. When that is made, I take my bowl, a glass of wine, and a stack of papers to review and cuddle up on the couch. I’m content, having gotten myself into a nice routine. I like my home.
A lot has happened in my life over the last nine months. I’m still living in the year from hell. It’s been nine months since I lost my brother. Nine months since I crushed my hand. And nine months since that douche with a flute left.
But it’s better.
Don’t assume I’m leaping off balconies and singing in the street. I still haven’t picked up or played an instrument since those two times in Italy.
A time I try not to think of.
What is better is that I am taking control of the situation. No more lying in bed wallowing. It’s time I try to make something out of this mess that is my life. The first step was getting a new apartment in a new city. Next, was finding a new job. After that—I have no idea.
Looking over at the coffee table I see a white envelope peering up at me. I put my salad bowl down and reach over for it. Inside is an invitation to the wedding of Leah Marie Paige and Adam Geoffrey Reingold.
A smile crosses my face. Those two crazy kids are finally getting married. Since they called off their summer wedding, everyone wondered when they would set a date again. Looks like a Christmas wedding is in order.
I can’t help but think back on that July trip with mixed emotions. When I arrived, I was half broken, on the mend from having my dreams torn apart and the devastation of losing Luke. I was going through the motions of life but I wasn’t living.
Then I met a man. An intense, complex, emotion extracting, sinful man who made me feel more in four days than I had in six months.
And then he played me like a fiddle.
Stupid fiddle.
I explained all of this to my shrink when I returned to Cedar Ridge. I booked a three-hour appointment and unloaded. Every feeling, every emotion and every ache that has burnt me since that fateful night in January, was put out there.
She didn’t seem impressed I had finally decided to open up. Instead, Dr. Schueler said my rendezvous in Italy set back all the progress we made with my PTSD. She wrote out a stack full of prescriptions and sent me on my merry way.
I, in turn, went home, tore them up and packed my bags.
It doesn’t take a world-renowned psychiatrist to see I needed out of Cedar Ridge. There were too many memories. I need to be far away from there and Pittsburgh and the reminders of all that was lost over the course of a weekend.
Maybe it wasn’t Asher that made me heal the way I did.
Maybe it was Capri.
Whatever it was, I needed to get away. At least for the time being.
My parents begged me to stay, but they know their headstrong little girl better than to expect her to listen. I was determined.
Shortly before I left for Italy, I sent my résumé out to various schools in the area looking for a teaching job. Since my hand is shot, I’d only be able to teach courses like Music Theory and Introduction to Music. It wasn’t what I wanted to do but it was better than living in my pajamas.
When I returned, I received an offer not to teach, but help run a music program in New York.
Having been enrolled in prestigious music schools my entire life, it seemed logical to put my knowledge to good use. Sure, it’s a lot of administration work but it’s perfect for my type-A personality. The program I am working on is brand new and just what I need to distract me for a year or two until I decide what my next plan of action is.
My cell phone rings from the side table next to the sofa. I lean over and grab it, seeing a pretty blonde with a bob and pale blue eyes looking back at me. I hit the green icon and say hello.
“How’s my little Carrie Bradshaw doing?” Leah pipes on the other end of the phone.