Using the tail of my shirt, I sop up the wetness from my face.
The coal bucket figurine goes into the box. It’s joined by a picture of him from high school, holding the state title up in the air. My hands shake as I pick up his grandmother’s quilt off the quilt rack and lay it on top of the other items. The pale pink linen is darkened by the fluid dripping off my chin.
Sniffing up the snot that dangles onto my lips, I start towards the bedroom where a few articles of his clothing still reside in the closet. I stomp by the room that would’ve been the nursery with the practiced “eyes straight ahead” so I don’t break down. It’s a dream that will never happen.
I grab his Tennessee Arrows hat off the hook on the closet door and dig out his favorite t-shirt from the dresser drawer. Before I can toss them into the box, I catch the scent of his cologne, and that’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back.
I fall to my knees, the box dropping to the floor in front of me. I hold his hat to my chest and sob.
TY
I rustle through a trash bag against the wall and find a clean t-shirt. Pulling it over my head, I notice the smell of the laundry detergent. It’s some brand I picked up at the laundromat yesterday. Waves of overly perfumed, cheap flowers drench my senses. It’s not so much what it smells like that drives me nuts, but what it doesn’t.
It doesn’t smell like home.
Elin always uses the same brand, the same one her mother used. Every time I do a load at a random laundromat with a box of suds from the dispenser, I’m reminded how much I miss her and how every little part of my life goes back to her. Even my fucking laundry soap.
Collapsing on the futon in Cord McCurry’s spare room, I rest my head against the rough material and close my eyes. Bracing for the onslaught of memories that floods me every time I don’t intentionally focus on something else, I’m halfway relieved when the sound of footsteps thud through the room.
“You all right?” Cord’s voice echoes from the hallway
“Yeah.”
A few moments later, his head pokes around the corner. His sandy brown hair is cut short, his jaw set as he takes me in and decides how to approach.
“There’s food and shit in the refrigerator. Washer and dryer are in the room off the kitchen.” He leans against the doorframe and waits on me to answer.
“Thanks for letting me stay here.”
“You’ve let me bunk with you a time or two. Glad to repay the favor. You can stay here for as long as you need to,” he says, a slight slant to his grin.
It’s one I return readily, an understanding between two men that met as a couple of rowdy boys in high school. Cord was a handful when he moved to Jackson, getting suspended for fighting on his very first day in school. I jumped in, not being able to stand watching the new kid from foster care—a fact I learned from my mother the night before—getting mauled by Shane Pettis, resident asshole, and got myself three free days to boot.
From that day on, Cord has had my back and I’ve had his. He’s the most dependable human being I know, which is why I called him when it became apparent I wouldn’t be going home tonight.
“Let’s hope to fuck I won’t be here long,” I mumble.
His chin dips just a touch. “It was probably just a shock to her to see you out of nowhere. Just give her a minute to adjust.”
“Do you know how bad I want to fucking go home and be with my wife? How I miss her? How I want to just forget all this bullshit and go back to the way things were before the fucking accident?”
He chuckles, his eyes sparkling. “I can imagine. She basically wipes your ass for you. I don’t know how you’re surviving.”
A small laugh escapes me too. “That’s true. But it’s not even about that. I just . . . I don’t even know what to do with myself, Cord.”
“Follow your gut. Always trust your gut.” He winks and shoves off the door. “I’m taking Yogi for a swim at the lake. Want anything while I’m gone?”
“You and that fucking dog,” I mutter, falling back on the stiff pillow again.
“Laugh all you want. She doesn’t put me through this shit,” he teases before pulling the door closed behind him.
The futon springs rip into my back. They scrape against the scars etched there from the accident, the same ones Elin used to feather her fingers across at night while I slept.
Oh, how far we’ve fallen.
Loving her is so damn easy. It’s as natural as breathing or the beating of a heart. Even when we were hurling insults at the very moment my rope was being frayed, a couple of seconds before she asked me to leave and I bolted—I loved her. That’s never been a question. It’s making life work around the love that’s hard.
Life doesn’t care about feelings. It couldn’t give a shit about who you love and want to be with. It keeps tossing crap your way, trying to break you until all you know is the chaos of it all.