My stomach rolls. “Nope, I’m good.”
He looks crestfallen. I feel bad, because I know he tried—there’s nothing wrong with the sandwich, just me.
He leaves me alone and I return to my emails. I set up a few meetings with potential clients. As I work, I bite my nails—a habit I gave up long ago, but it’s suddenly returned with the amount of stress I feel. I hope my extended absence hasn’t ruined my business. I know there’s nothing I can do about it now, so I have to take everything in stride.
When I’m all caught up I shut down my computer and turn off the desk light. The chandelier in the center of the room still shines, though. I close my eyes, smiling lightly at the memory.
“Are you sure you want that gaudy thing?” Ben asked, reaching up to touch one of the dangling clear jewels.
“Yes,” I laughed. “It’s perfect.”
He made a face. “It doesn’t seem very you.”
“I want it for my office,” I said defensively. “I want that space to be different.”
He shrugged. “Okay, it’s your office. We’ll get it if that’s what you want.”
“It is.”
He wrapped his arms around me and kissed my forehead. “You’re awfully sure about that chandelier—how do you know it’s the one?”
I raised my brows. I knew he wasn’t talking about the chandelier anymore.
“I just know,” I whispered. “When it’s right, it’s right. Why question it?”
He nodded. “Good answer.”
I open my eyes, and they’re now clouded with tears. That memory feels like it happened a lifetime ago, when it was really only two years ago. That girl, the one who was so happy and in love, she’s gone.
I don’t think she’s coming back.
Stage Three: Bargaining
I lie in bed, staring at the smooth white ceilings. There’s not a blemish on the surface. Not a crack or speck. Nothing to look at it. Nothing but whiteness. It’s after one in the morning, and I’ve been in bed for hours, sleeping off and on, but now I’m wide awake and sleep is elusive.
I’ve been crying off and on. I’ve grown used to the random bouts of tears that overtake me every day. It’s something I’m going to have to live with.
“Please,” I beg, staring at the ceiling, “I’ll do anything, just bring him back. Anything, I mean it.” A tear slides down the side of my face and gets lost in the sheets. Sheets that no longer smell like Ben. When I want to smell him I have to sneak into our closet and smell his shirts. My mom is urging me to donate his stuff, but I don’t want to. Not yet. It’s too soon.
“I love him,” I continue, “so much. I’m lost without him. Bring him back to me.” I choke on a sob. “I’m a good person, right?” I question. “Why would you do this to me? What did I do to deserve this? Whatever it was, I take it back. I’ll be a better person. Please. If someone had to die, it should’ve been me, not Ben. He was good. A better person than I’ll ever be. He didn’t deserve this.”
I cover my face with my hands and sob. My hands grow wet with my tears, and my eyes begin to feel puffy. I roll over and clutch the pillow Ben used to sleep on. His head hasn’t touched that pillow in over a month.
He’s been dead for five weeks.
Even thinking the word makes me want to throw up. It still doesn’t feel real. I feel like I’m trapped in a nightmare that’s never going to end. I guess in a way I am.
I push off the covers and head downstairs to the kitchen. I know there’s no chance of me sleeping. Once in the kitchen, I turn on one set of lights and rifle through the cabinets. I find the packet of hot chocolate and set about making it. I grab a mug and dump in the packet and hot water. I stir the mixture around, the spoon clinking against the side of the mug. I add whip cream, a little bit of chocolate syrup and some chocolate shavings. Extravagant? Yes, but it helps quiet my mind.
I pull out one of the barstools and take a seat. I take a tentative sip. It sucks. Seriously, it tastes like dirty dishwater—not that I know what that tastes like. I drink it anyway, though.
I hear footsteps and I look up to see my dad shuffling into the room in his robe and slippers. His thin hair is mussed around his head, and his eyes are tired.
“I thought I heard ya, Kid.” His voice is thick with sleep. “What are you doing up?”
I shrug. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“What’s that?” He nods at my mug.
“Hot chocolate. It tastes awful, but …”
He laughs and shakes his head. “But you wanted it anyway,” he finishes for me.
I nod. “Yep.” I take another sip and wince.
“Give me that, Kid.” He swipes the mug from me. “If there’s anything your old man can make it’s hot chocolate, or have you forgotten?”