Page 67 of Even After This
Standing, he turns to the fireplace. “What do you mean? Who?” He shakes his head and faces me. “Your trip to Colorado. Let me get this straight. I wait for years. For you. You finally decide you’re ready, and I miss it by a few weeks?” Crimson anger flushes his cheeks.
“Stanley, I—”
He holds up his hand. “Can he take care of you? How will he know how to help you? Or what you need?” His arms open wide as his voice rises. “I’ve known you for years, Meredith. That has to count for something.”
An unexpected wave of reality sweeps over me. Stanley has known me for years, but he doesn’t know me at all.
“Your feelings are honorable, but I think they’re misplaced.” I whisper my words to soften the blow. “I don’t need to be rescued anymore.”
His head jerks back. “Tell me who.” The quiet, controlled order drips with torment.
“I’m not sure it matters who. More than likely, it won’t go anywhere.” I clutch the pillow tighter to my stomach. “But I think it matters that I can tell a difference. And I am so sorry.”
Stanley’s cheek twitches, and he nods. He stares at me foranother miserable few seconds. “Well, then.” Looking around the room, he pulls his keys from his pocket. “I should let you go.”
We walk to the entryway, and I unlock the door and hold it open.
As he steps onto the porch, he turns and glances over his shoulder. “Take care, Meredith.”
Claws of guilt grab my chest. “I’m sorry we lost them.” My voice cracks. “I’m sorry you lost Steve.”
The sound escaping his mouth is a cross between a scoff and guttural pain. He cranes his neck and focuses on the sky. “Now it feels like I’ve lost yet another friend.”
And on that painful note, my grip on the door is the only thing that keeps me upright as I watch him drive away.
A few hours later, I’m still reeling.
Everything’s wrong. My top three coping mechanisms didn’t work. First, I took a walk and gained nothing but an opportunity to think about what just happened. Second, until I choose to acknowledge Harlan to those around me, talking with Molly or Claire isn’t an option. And third, this one possibly being the worst, my long-term companion, chocolate, failed me.
I grab the remote and search on my DVR for my last-ditch effort to find comfort.
Help me, Katniss. I just shot an innocent victim with my bow and arrow.
17
Whack.
To my surprise, using a butcher knife can be quite cathartic.
It’s Thanksgiving Day, and I haven’t heard from Harlan since Sunday. His tired, seemingly apologetic voice filled my voicemail with dull, confusing words about not knowing if he could come to Thanksgiving until the last minute.
Why is he dragging out the slow fade of our relationship when he could sever it with a few words?
“Why do boys have to be so stupid, Aunt Meredith?” My niece, Hannah, rests her hip against the counter and turns to me while I butcher a cauliflower. “I’m serious. Why are they sostupid?”
“You’re stupid.” Her ten-year-old brother, Taylor, ambles to the sink, apparently clueless that his comment just endangered his life.
Whack. Whack. I am really starting to like this butcher knife. “What happened, Hannah Banana?” I ask.
“I’m sure Jackson figured out she’s boring.” My nephew has put his life on the chopping block. Again.
I lean over and elbow him in admonishment.
Hannah rolls her eyes with such exaggeration, I worry they’ll stick behind her eyelids. “I went to homecoming with him. We had fun. He said he’d call, but he didn’t.”
Whack whack whack. Does she play her dance with Jackson on a torturous looping movie reel the way I play mine with Harlan? “Big jerk,” I say to the vegetable in front of me, otherwise known as Harlan’s cruciferous head.
“Whoa there, Wolverine.” Molly’s hands cover mine, and she eases the butcher knife out of my grip. “Let’s get you a smaller blade.”
