Page 66 of Even After This
What I want to say is “Thank you, but have you readDivergent? Lots of people die in that book, but it’s more entertaining.” Instead, I quiet my inner child. “How thoughtful. Thank you, Stanley.”
“I was kind of thinking we could ... read it together?” He mumbles the question to his hands.
“Oh.” I shift forward, trying to squash the twinge of guilt thatruns through me for not asking Stanley about his life. “We haven’t caught up in a while. Are you dealing with a loss?”
He snaps his head up, his brow furrowed. “No.”
I blink.
“Meredith.” He rubs his hands together. “I-I’d like to spend more time with you. If you would like that.”
Over the years, Stanley has checked on me, left me thoughtful gifts, and taken care to know my goings-on. Sometimes I want to joke that being the best man only applied to the wedding, but I think that brand of candor would crush him.
I pull a striped, square decorative pillow into my lap. “Thank you, Stanley. That’s kind of you.” I hate this. “But if I said yes, I worry I would be leading you on.”
“I don’t mean we would be dating. I just thought—” He exhales a breath of frustration. “I mean, I know, Meredith. I know we have a connection and maybe it’s—maybe we should look at it.” He leans forward, his intense gaze shooting my way. “I was there, Meredith. That day. I was there.” He points to his chest. “And that has to count for something. I loved you through that ... and ... and I think I love you more than friends now.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath.
That day.
A couple of months after the accident, I had a meltdown. My world was filled with a silence so loud, it brought me to my knees. Depression was like a sticky fog that rolled into my life and refused to let go.
Underneath the unfathomable and gut-wrenching sadness, a potent anger infiltrated my every fiber with admirable stealth.
Yes, I was angry at the loss, but I was irate with the people around me.
Well-intentioned friends visited my home, and I was a sitting duck for everyone’s opinion. Many of them wanted to somehow quantify the tragedy so it would make sense in their human brains. I was accosted by kind words full of messed-up platitudesthat felt wounding to me. Out of self-protection, I started hating people and withdrawing from my life.
I wasn’t trying to harm myself. I simply didn’t want to exist. So I stopped eating, ignored self-care, and wouldn’t answer my phone or door.
My loved ones recognized the suicide attempt I didn’t understand.
One day, my family showed up to perform an intervention. Accompanied by a nurse and a representative from a recovery facility in Arizona, they made it clear I was leaving for inpatient care after our discussion.
Unfortunately, Stanley arrived at my house unannounced right as my panic over leaving turned to righteous fury.
When I saw him, I thought he was part of the family meeting. I seethed with pain, assaulting everyone around me with malicious words. To his dismay, this included an unprepared and innocent Stanley.
Someone removed me from the house. I remember a lot of arms and straps. An injection of some sort. Screaming. Then relief.
And I remember the broken expression, full of anguish, on Stanley’s face.
So what I am hearing from him in this moment about how he loves me in spite of that day causes my heart to fracture. What kind of a beautiful person can still want to be with me after such destruction?
“Stanley, you’ve been a valuable friend.” I tug at the fringe on the pillow. “I’m overwhelmed by your commitment to me. Especially after what I said to you that day.” A tear slips down my cheek, and I wipe it away. “I will always be so thankful for your grace.”
Seeing the pools that form in his eyes causes an ache in my chest.
“But I am so sorry. I’m not interested in you in a romanticway.” I bite my lip to hold back more tears. “You are a treasure and such a genuinely good person. Thank you for loving me. I’m just so sorry I don’t return your feelings.”
He scoots to the edge of the chair, his fists clenched. “How do you know, Meredith? Shouldn’t we at least try?”
On an inhale, I grasp at my resolve. “Because I met someone who is also a treasure and a genuinely good person.” I offer an apologetic half smile. “Only my feelings for him are different.”
What am I doing? Am I channeling my inner teenage girl who likes the handsome man who might never speak to her again? Those stupid YA trilogies are messing with my ability to be logical. As I silently curse Peeta and Four, I lock my gaze with Stanley’s.
I have just kicked a puppy.
