I smile and shake my head. “No, of course not.”
Hot chocolate late at night—granted, not at one in the morning—was something my dad and I cherished. We didn’t do it often, maybe once a month, but it was our time. He’d ask me about school, and I’d ask him about work. Then we’d usually end up talking about my friends. He’d listen with rapt attention, even though he was probably bored out of his mind.
He dumps my pathetic attempt at hot chocolate out in the sink and grabs a pan. He places it on the stove, adding milk, cocoa powder, and a little bit of sugar. He stirs the mixture as it heats.
“Talk to me, Kid. No one’s up at this hour unless their mind’s full.”
I trace the pattern in the granite countertop. “I was wondering what I did wrong,” I whisper. “To deserve this,” I add.
He continues to stir, but turns to look at me. “You didn’t do nothin’. You’re a good girl, Blaire. Things like this … they just happen.”
“It’s my fault,” I cry. “I know it is.” I inhale a shaky breath and look away. I don’t want my dad to see me break down—I mean, he already has about a million times, but I don’t want to add another one to the list.
He finishes stirring and adds the mixture to two mugs. He tops it with whipped cream and marshmallows. He hands me my cup and then sits down beside me.
“You’ve got to stop this, Kid. You’re goin’ down a slippery path. You can’t blame yourself for this. The only person at fault is the guy that was drinkin’ and drivin’. He did this, not you. But you can’t blame him, either. Blame gets you nowhere in life. You have to move on, Blaire.”
I shake my head. “It’s too soon.”
He shrugs. “Maybe so, but you have to move on eventually. I hate to burst your bubble, Kid, but he ain’t comin’ back. He’s gone. But you, you’re still here. You have to live your life—he’d want that for you. You don’t need to feel guilty for that.”
“I need more time,” I whisper.
“You keep sayin’ that—” he shrugs “—but I don’t see you doin’ anything to get better.” He wraps his weathered hands around the mug. “I think you should talk to someone. A therapist.”
I roll my eyes. “You sound like Mom.”
“Your momma’s a wise woman. You should listen to her more often—but you’re stubborn like me.” He bumps my shoulder with his. “Sorry about that, Kid. She’s right when she says we’re exactly alike.”
I soften. “That’s not a bad thing, Dad.”
“Sometimes it is.” He stands and empties his mug. “Goodnight, Kid.” He kisses my forehead as he passes. “Get some sleep.”
“I’ll try,” I whisper, but he’s gone.
Stage Four: Depression
I dress robotically.
Slacks.
Blouse.
Sweater.
Heels.
Necklace.
Watch.
Bracelets.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My hair has grown longer, and it’s now past my shoulders, but the once lustrous brown locks are now dull and lifeless. My eyes are much the same. My cheeks are still hollowed, and my lips have thinned. I look like I’ve aged ten years in a month and a half. Stress and grief will do that to you.
I grab my purse and walk out of my closet. I’m meeting a client at a local hotel so we can check it out before booking any space for an event.
When I step into the kitchen, my parents are both sitting at the kitchen table with a spread of breakfast food. My dad has a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose and a newspaper held between his hands. He must’ve gone out to get it because Ben and I don’t get one.
I mean I don’t get one.
“I made you breakfast,” my mom smiles cheerily. She’s ecstatic to see me up and dressed, ready for work. It’s all a fa?ade, though. My insides are gray and stormy and the effort to get ready has nearly drained me. I only hope that I can make it through this meeting before I give up.
My nose wrinkles. “I’m not hungry.”
“Blaire—”
“I’ll grab a bagel from the coffee shop or something.” I wave a hand dismissively. I’d say just about anything right now to get her off my back. I’m horrible, I know. She’s only doing what any concerned mother would do in her situation. I’m just testier than normal—I think I have that right.
I grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator and stick it in my purse.
“I’ll be back soon,” I say.
“Good luck,” my mom says, giving me a thumbs up.
“Bye, love you guys.” I wave and head out the door.
My mom might be driving me up a wall, but I am thankful that they’re here. A few weeks ago I wanted nothing more for them to leave, and now I’m dreading the day they fly back to Florida. The last thing I want is to be alone in this big house.