All I did lately was storm out of uncomfortable situations. It was a nasty habit, but one I couldn’t seem to stop. And I hated it. Hated the anger. Hated feeling like the bad guy all the time. Hated feeling like I didn’t belong anymore.
There was a time when I could’ve called my dad or Andrew to talk things out. They were calm and rational, sensible to my erratic emotions. But they didn’t understand me anymore.
The only person I could think of now was Patrick. When I’d gone that route the other night, it hadn’t turned out well. I liked being at his place a little more than I wanted to admit. Besides, we’d end up arguing because I didn’t know how to do anything else. I just wanted some peace.
We hadn’t left things on a good footing anyway. I’d tried to do something nice, even if it was a little selfish. I’d been worried about him after those drunk texts and our conversation and needed to see for myself he was okay. That plan had backfired.
“Guess we have to go home, buddy.”
Blake ignored me, chewing on his stuffed elephant.
I stopped at the market a few blocks away from the house. We didn’t need anything, other than to kill time.
As I climbed up the front steps to the house, the same image besieged me that always did: the Casualty Notification Officer. I felt his anxiety before he delivered the news.
And every time I opened the front door, I saw myself on my knees, beating anything my fist came into contact with.
The grief counselor who’d stopped by a few times shortly after Jack’s—I swallowed hard. She assured me it would get easier with time. She didn’t know what she was talking about.
I missed my husband more with every passing day. He’d been everything to me. Kind, patient with my everyday sarcasm, and we’d laughed. We’d laughed a lot, and I didn’t think I had heard myself do that simple thing since the last time we spoke.
“Posey had moon dust all over him. Hell, we all did. But he came screaming out of the shower like bloody murder,” Jack choked out between laughs.
I smiled though I didn’t know what was so funny.
“He-he didn’t-have-on-his glasses.” I could barely understand him he was laughing so hard. “He thought it was a black widow. It was a ladybug.”
That deep rumbly sound hit me in the chest. Contagious. I found myself doubled over.
“He didn’t?”
I couldn’t stop laughing. Tears rolled down my cheeks. And while the image was funny, it was just having a good time with my husband as if we were in the same room that made me happy. Jack had a way of doing that.
And now I had lived 654 days without him. Without the man who loved me unconditionally. He gave me the gift of our son, who was my reason to breathe.
I was so resentful about what we’d lost. My son would never know his father. My husband would never meet his child. It was so wrong. So, so wrong. I hated this house and all the memories it held. Even the good ones were painful. But we’d bought this place together. It represented the dream we’d had. All the others had shattered, but this one was still intact. I couldn’t let it go. I couldn't . . . shouldn’t leave here. For Jack. For Blake.
In the kitchen, I settled Blake in a high chair before I opened a bottle of Pinot Noir. I poured a glass, took a long sip, and grimaced. Hadn’t I chastised Patrick this morning for putting a Band-Aid over his problems with alcohol?
Hypocrisy was apparently an inherited trait.
I yanked on a drawer pull, dug to the bottom of the junk piled inside, and found what I was looking for.
“Why did you leave us?” The image of my dead husband became blurry. “You always had to be the hero. Did you even think about us?” I sank to my knees, the tears I’d refused to shed bursting through the dam.
“I need you and you’re not here. You’re supposed to be here,” I shouted.
Blake wailed. I crawled over to him and picked him up, bawling into his hair. “Mommy isn’t supposed to do this. I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. Don’t cry.”
He clutched my shirt with his fists, tears soaking the fabric.
“Please. Don’t. Cry.” The words were warbled as I tried to gain control, failing miserably.
I shook violently, pained sounds escaping me.
“Marlow.” Patrick hit his knees in front of us. “What is it?” His eyes searched between Blake and me. “Is he sick?”
I only cried harder at the compassion on his face. He shifted to his rear and pulled both of us onto his lap. Strong arms enveloped us. Kisses landed on my hair.
“Talk to me, Wicked. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“How. Did. You. Get. In?” I choked out.
“The door was unlocked. You didn’t answer, so I came in.”
“Do you do that at everyone’s house?”
He smoothed matted hair back from my face. “No. Just yours. I thought it would annoy you.”
I hiccup-laughed.
“No more tears, buddy. Whatever it is, it’ll be okay.” He rubbed Blake’s back, but his eyes were on mine.
“Don’t make him promises like that,” I whispered.
“I’ll fix it.”
“You can’t.”
He pressed my head back to his chest. “Hush.”
“What are you doing here?”
“You don’t follow instructions well.” He kissed the top of my head. “I was a jackass earlier. You did something nice for me. I came to apologize . . . and hoped you’d cook for me again.”
I smacked him in the side. “Are you still drunk?”
“A little.”
I sniffled, though the waterworks had stopped. He picked up the picture of Jack.
“Every day like this or is this one particularly rough?”
There was no judgment in the question, though I detected an edge of something I couldn’t decipher.
“I feel like this on the inside every day. Most of the time I do
