Gretchen finds me like this an hour later, standing over the bed with a concerned expression. “What’s going on?” she murmurs.
I give her a look. How am I supposed to say, again, that I’ve been sobbing? That I’ve reverse-aged like Benjamin Button and can only function in the fetal position? That my chances of survival seem slim? I’m starting to sound like a broken record.
“Hey,” she says, and kicks off her shoes so she can climb into bed with me. Her hair falls over my shoulder as she wraps her arms around my middle. “Want to do something fun?”
I give her another look, accompanied by an atrociously loud sniffle.
“Look, it’s going to be hard. I know you,” she says. “You like your comfort zone and don’t want to step out when things get hard. But when it’s easy, sure—heck, you’ll plan an entire wedding!”
I groan, throwing my pillow over my face. Her words sting because they’re true. I’m sorry, Levi, that I didn’t keep you when I had you.
I’m waiting for you. It’s only been five days since he said those words.
I shake my head beneath the pillow.
Gretchen keeps going, despite my miniature tantrum. “Right now it’s hard, life sucks, and despite it all, you and I are going to do something that doesn’t consist of wearing pajamas and eating popcorn. Just this once, Bee. Just today.”
I have been eating a lot of popcorn lately. (And I’m pretty sure I’ve gained a few pounds.) I throw the pillow to the end of the bed and sit up abruptly. “Know what?” I demand. “You’re right and it pisses me off.”
Gretchen looks relatively unimpressed. “That’s good, I suppose.”
“What the hell am I supposed to do?” I say, enraged, as I hug my knees to my chest.
“Fight back.” Gretchen tugs me closer, so my head rests on her shoulder. “I say we write on the walls.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know, like you always wanted to do. Write out your favorite lyrics or something.”
I glance at the wall at the head of my bed, empty except for a small map of the world. I’d been meaning to hang up more pictures, maybe buy some art, but now that all seems stupid.
I’m going to write on my walls.
I lean across Gretchen to open my nightstand drawer, where I have a pile of pens and pencils and sharpies. I grab a sharpie and move to my knees, popping the lid off and poising the tip against the wall. I already know what song I’m going to choose. “Gretchen, will you look up the lyrics to ‘Michicant’?”
She laughs, incredulously. “You mean the one by Bon Iver? As in, that band you hate?”
“I…I don’t…” I huff. “Ugh. What other Bon Iver is there?”
“I’m just surprised, is all.” And then…it dawns. “Ohhhh. I see what’s going on here.”
I glare at her. “Shh, Gretchen. Don’t push that button, Jay Gatsby.”
“You meant the Levi button?” She roars with laughter as I lob a pillow at her head. “Ready?” she asks, pulling out her phone and holding it up in surrender.
Oh, am I ever. With a nod, she begins to read, and I begin to write.
Chapter 50
It’s with a dull ache that I start to see the world again.
It’s not exactly a pretty place, but it’s better than the hell I’ve been in. I see my mother crying ten times a day (I hold her for at least five of those), but I also hear my sisters rapping songs from Hamilton at the top of their lungs, and when Tom leaves for work in the evening there’s a bit of a smile back in his eyes. I even relieve Gretchen of her job: grocery shopping. (Apparently, that’s where she’s been going every day.) I’m happy with the song on my wall, except now I think of Levi every time I see it. (As if I’m not already thinking of him every other second that I’m not thinking of Papa.) I don’t talk about him out loud, though, as if somehow opening my mouth and saying his name will jinx every ounce of courage I’ve gained in the last several days.
I don’t want to relapse.
Of course, I can’t avoid him at all when he calls me—calls me!—on Day Eleven After the Funeral. I stare at my phone in agony, so tempted to answer, but I know I can’t. I know it’s not right.
Gretchen grabs it off the table. “Bernice, answer this phone right now.”
“No,” I say firmly. “I’m not ready.”
“Why not?” she demands, finger hovering over the button.
“I’ve cried too many times today.”
As soon as the phone stops ringing I take it from her. His voicemail alert comes through an eternity later, but hearing his voice is entirely worth the wait.
“Hey.” He takes a deep breath in. It sounds shaky. “I know we’re not supposed to be talking right now, but I can’t help myself. Do you need anything? How’s your family? I’m a mess over here, Bee.” He groans, and there’s a shuffling noise. I think I hear Missy complaining in the background. “I know you have Gretchen and I know you need time. I promise I’m not being pushy. Or, erm, I’m trying not to be pushy. I miss you every day, okay? But we don’t even have to see each other—just let me know if you want me to drop something off or help with your sisters or…anything. Okay. I love you.”
He hangs up.
I put the phone on the table, my mouth stretched wide with a smile. Gretchen listens to the message next, lips quirked. Oh, I’m so done for.
She clears her throat once before nodding solemnly. “That Boy deserves a medal.”
I groan, still smiling, and bury my head in my hands.
“But seriously, Bee, when are you going to get him back?”
“When I stop crying all the time?”
“Hmm. You’re not crying right now, though.” Gretchen stands, paces back and forth twice, then raises her finger. “Think about it like this: Do you need me?”
I roll my eyes.
She gasps. “Just…answer the question!”
“Yes, yes, okay! I need you.”
“So, the reality is…I’m not always going to be here. Not physically, anyway. And he is. He’s going to be here forever because let’s face it, he’s not going to let you get away. He loves you, Bee.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that I’m not ready.” I am, however, tempted to listen to the voicemail again. (And a thousand more times into eternity.) Gretchen sighs. “You need him. You need him like you need me, and your family, and those smelly boys you’re friends with. He makes you laugh, Bee—he makes you smile when you’re the saddest you’ve ever been. That says something—no, I lied, that says everything. And he needs you, just as badly. He’s probably wandering around aimlessly because you’re not by his side.”
I cringe. “Are you a walking-talking romance novel?” (Elle would be proud.) “No, shush, I’m just being honest.” She tsks, and asks again, “When will you go back to him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Before you give me all the reasons why you can’t, let me say this: You’re not allowed to feel guilty about being with Levi because of your dad.”
“No, that’s not it,” I say truthfully. “Not anymore.”
“Then what it is? He loves you, you love him, I’m leaving in three days.” She smiles. “The list of reasons why you should jump on this—ASAP—is a mile long.”