My breath floats in puffy clouds by my chin, as I anchor myself in a full headstand in the cold, damp sand at sunrise. The mid-October beach is empty as I breathe through the blood rushing to my head. My once-bony shoulders are now able to support all the physical and emotional weight I throw their way.
It’s been three months.
Three months without his voice, his touch, his presence. And, I’m OK. I wasn’t. But I am now. I cried for a week straight after I left Bo’s house that day. Monica was at a loss for words for the first time in our friendship. I missed Bo instantly. We’d just made love for the first time in two months and, just like that, it was all gone.
Bo was right—we were a mess. The day after I got home from Concord, I took a good long look at myself in the mirror and didn’t recognize the girl looking back at me. My green eyes were mossy with grief, stress, and malnutrition, and my body followed suit. Bones in my chest and hips begged warmth from a layer of fat that disappeared sometime when I wasn’t paying attention. I started yoga immediately—the only form of prayer I’ve ever been familiar with.
The first few days I headed to the beach to practice, I ended up in a ball in the sand for an hour, my salty tears mixing with the waves. I cried because I bailed on him in May, for reasons I have yet to understand—fear is the only one I’ve come up with. I cried over losing Rae. I loved her like a sister, and she was someone’s sister. Once I made it into a headstand, I cried some more. Then, I started to heal.
Three months without Rachel. It seems like much longer somehow.
I stay in the headstand a bit longer, letting Rachel wash over me. I’m so, so sad that she’s gone, but it doesn’t have to take me out. I can feel sadness and be OK.
Slowly bending my legs and folding into child’s pose, I ready myself for flower shopping with Monica. Shortly after Rae’s funeral, she tenderly asked if I was still “up” for being her maid of honor. I hugged her, and then smacked her for asking. I can’t wait for their wedding; it’s only three weeks away.
“You’ve got one hell of a headstand, Harris.” Monica pleasantly disrupts the last moment of Zen I’ll have for the next twelve hours.
“Thanks. Feel free to join me any time.”
She ignores my invitation. “When are you going to take these sessions inside? It’s cold as hell out here.”
I look around and breathe in the freshest air anyone could ever breathe. “When the snow falls, I guess.” I stand and we walk to the parking lot.
“Your arms are looking fierce, Ember. I haven’t seen you look this good since you were twenty.” Monica playfully grabs my tight upper arms. “Are you singing at Delta Blue tonight?”
“I planned on it, unless you have something else in mind.”
I’ve been signing at a tiny jazz club on the outskirts of Boston on the weekends. I needed something new, something challenging. I wanted to flex my singing muscles just outside the shadow of my parents. Jazz and soul are the ticket for me. I can still play the guitar, but it sounds sexier somehow. Our house band took an indefinite break when, as promised, Regan headed back to Ireland two days after Rae’s funeral. C.J.’s been the only one to speak to him and says he’ll be back eventually, but I doubt he will. I wouldn’t if I were in his shoes.
Monica smiles and shakes her head. “I’m glad you have that. You’re so freaking good, like you could go on tour with ZZ Ward or something. Seriously. I can’t come tonight is all. Josh’s brother is coming to town so we’ve got dinner plans.”
“It’s OK. So, what is it, exactly, that we’re doing at the flower shop today? I thought you had all the arrangements and whatever picked out.” Poor Monica, I’m the least “in-the-know” person she could have chosen for maid of honor.
“I have to choose my flowers for the bouquet toss.” She sighs as though this is something we’ve been over, or that I should know.
“Your what now?”
“I won’t toss my super expensive bouquet, you nitwit. You pick a smaller arrangement—”
“Ah, yes, to chuck at some unsuspecting girl’s forehead?” I roll my eyes and snicker.
“You laugh now, November. But my friend’s cousin, Daphne, used to catch the bouquet at, like, every wedding she went to.” She’s dead serious as she tells this story.
“Oh did she, now? And, Ms. Pierce,” I flutter my eyelashes, “did this Daphne girl ever find her happily ever after?”
Monica grabs my face and plants a dramatic kiss on my cheek. “She did.”
*
As I sit amongst leaves and petals, my mind wanders. I try to rein it in as much as possible, but a stroll once in a while is necessary. I think about Bo. A lot, actually—I just don’t make it hurt. He asked me not to call him, and I haven’t. I have, however, been in semi-frequent contact with David Bryson for work purposes. Out of respect for Bo, I haven’t directly asked David about him, but he has slipped unrequested information into our conversations.