Today is not going to be a good day. I wake up and immediately want to go back to sleep. I don’t want to have to get out of bed and deal. The empty space beside me in bed suddenly feels ice cold and as vast as the ocean. I stretch my fingers across the cool expanse, reaching, searching, hoping. But Ben’s not there and he’ll never be there again.
I’ll never get to wake up to his smiling face while he says, “Morning, beautiful,” and I complain about my stinky breath when he tries to kiss me. He always said, “I don’t care,” and kissed me anyway.
I swallow thickly, and a tear leaks from the corner of my eye, falling onto the sheet. I roll to my side and close my eyes. If I think hard enough, I can picture him in my mind. Tousled blond hair, soft but firm lips, wide grin, and bright-blue eyes. But his voice … I’m forgetting what his voice sounded like, and that scares me more than anything. I don’t want to forget anything about Ben. Not ever.
“I miss you,” I whisper. “So fucking much. It still doesn’t feel real,” I admit. “I keep feeling like someone’s going to jump out from behind a wall and say, ‘Haha, got you.’”
My eyes are still closed, and the Ben I see in my mind laughs at me.
I unconsciously scoot closer, but instead of being met with warm, inviting arms, there’s just sheets and blankets. I slowly peel open my eyes and take in the emptiness of the bed once more.
No amount of imagining is going to bring him back. I wish it was that simple.
I roll back over onto my back and cover my face with the crook of my arm. I don’t want to get out of bed. I don’t want to go about my day like everything’s okay when it’s not.
And then, like a swift kick in the stomach, I feel like I’m going to throw up.
I throw the covers off my body and run to the bathroom, collapsing in front of the toilet.
Morning sickness. Lovely.
I have to laugh, though, at the irony of it. All I wanted was to stay in bed and mope and my unborn baby is having none of it. Their dad was the same way—always pushing me. I feel like this is my baby’s silent way to encourage me to get up and deal.
“You’re already bossing Mommy around,” I say when I stand up and flush the toilet. “Your daddy would be proud.”
I brush my teeth and wipe my face off.
When I look in the mirror, I want to cringe. I look exhausted despite getting a full night’s sleep. I look haggard and I’m not even thirty-years-old. I know I’m supposed to meet the girls for lunch, but I find myself coming up with every excuse possible in my mind—they all sound ridiculous.
I glance longingly through the doorway at my unmade bed. It calls my name, but I don’t allow myself to succumb to the temptation.
Instead, I do something completely out of character and call Ryder.
As the phone’s ringing, I realize that it’s probably way too early to call on a weekend. It’s barely seven in the morning. Before I can hang up, though, he answers.
“Hello?”
I pause. “Um, hi … It’s Blaire.”
“Hey, Blaire,” his tone of voice brightens, “are you okay?” Before I can respond, he says, “Dumb question, you wouldn’t be calling me if you were okay. What’s up?”
I hop up on my bathroom counter and let my feet dangle. “Today’s a bad day,” I say simply.
“Ah, I see.”
“I was wondering if maybe we could meet for coffee or breakfast or something,” I ramble.
He hisses between his teeth. “I can’t, sorry. I have Cole today.”
I wince. “Oh, right. I forgot.”
“You could come by my house, if you don’t mind?” he asks. “I’d suggest meeting at a park so Cole can burn off some energy but it’s too cold.”
“Um …” I pause, nervously wringing the fabric of my pajama shirt in my hands. It feels awkward and like I’m crossing boundaries to go to his house, but then again, that’s silly. We’re two adults having a conversation, that’s it. “I can do that,” I finally say after a lengthy pause. “Can you text me your address?”
“Yeah,” he says. “And, Blaire?”
“Yes?”
“Bring coffee.”
I smile. “I can do that.”
“Good. See you soon.”
I hang up with Ryder and I already feel lighter. I change into a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and a sweatshirt. I don’t feel like dressing nice, and I think Ryder will understand.
I slip my feet into a pair of flats and grab my purse, stuffing my phone inside.
Downstairs, my mom’s already awake, sitting on the couch reading a book.
She closes it immediately when she sees me and launches into a million questions, not even giving me a chance to answer. “How are you feeling? Did you sleep well? Are you hungry? Do you want juice? Tea? Is there anything I can do? Blaire?”
“I’m fine,” I tell her. “I’m … meeting a friend for breakfast.”
Her brows furrow. “I thought you were seeing the girls for lunch.”