Page 28 of Promise To Marry You
Not theonlygood thing… My mind flashes back to Dogwood Cove and Beckett. We may have maintained our friendship after university, but truthfully, we didn’t get to see each other that often. These past couple of weeks, seeing him every single day, I can’t fully understand or describe how good it feels.
Grandpa may have died, but his leaving has opened the door for Beckett’s return.
I pull into the driveway and stare up at the dark house I grew up in. So many different emotions are battling within me. Grief is raging to the top, alongside anger and pain, but to my relief, happiness is threaded in as well. It’s harder to hold on to, but I do have good memories of living here.
I force my legs to carry me out of the car and up to the front door. Turning my key, I step inside and flick on the lights. Everything is exactly as it was the day of the funeral, the last time I stepped foot in here. The blanket I had wrapped around me is on the couch where I left it when Beckett arrived. The jacket I wore over here that morning, but didn’t take to the funeral, still hangs on the hook.
Everything from the day of the funeral is preserved. Just as it was when I came here that day. Other than cleaning out the fridge, I didn’t touch anything. So really, it’s all the same as it was the day Grandpa died.
That sobering realization has me sliding down to the floor, leaning back against the wall, as silent tears start to stream down my face.
It’s been less than a month, and even with not a thing being moved from where Grandpa would have put it, the house is empty. A tomb.
I don’t know how long I stay there crying, but when my throat starts to hurt, and my eyes feel scratchy and raw, I stagger up to stand and make my way into the kitchen. Opening the cabinet where Grandpa kept his water glasses, my eye catches on his favourite coffee mug.
It’s a pottery piece that I made him years ago. My technique was amateur, and the artist in me sees the flaws. But the granddaughter in me sees the loving way Grandpa cared for that mug. He used it every fucking day, washed it with gentle hands, and gave it a place of honour on the shelf.
And now he’ll never use it again.
That thought has me grabbing it, and before I think about what I’m doing, I throw it against the kitchen wall with a scream, watching it shatter into pieces, the way I feel shattered in pieces.
Regret instantly fills me, along with a fresh wave of grief and anger. This is what love does. It destroys. It breaks. It shatters.
Something comes over me, and I turn, grabbing more glasses and mugs from the cabinet and throwing them all against the wall. With every throw, I find myself yelling, cursing at everything.
“Fuck you, Mom and Dad. Why couldn’t one of you fight to stay for me? Why wasn’t I enough for you to even try?”Smash.
“Goddamn Cliveden conservative assholes. I fucking hate all of you.”Smash.
“Fucking heart attacks and strokes and eating red meat and drinking beer and all that bullshit. You left me.”Smash.
“Everyone always leaves me.”Smash.
“Everyone always hurts me.”Smash.
Eventually, my hand that is reaching for another glass hits an empty shelf. And I slump against the counter, exhausted, but strangely feeling lighter.
I survey the disaster I’ve created in Grandpa’s kitchen with a detached gaze. When I see a large piece of the pottery mug that started it all, the regret returns. Exhaustion threatens to win the internal debate of whether I should clean this all up now or just leave it. But regret and responsibility edge out my physical and emotional fatigue, and I force myself to sweep it all up, intent on dumping it in the trash.
But when my hand hovers over the larger fragments of the pottery mug, I hesitate. Love, sentiment, whatever, takes over. And I set aside some pieces before hurrying to finish cleaning up everything else.
Then, finally, I take myself down the hall to the bedroom that has been mine since the day Grandpa brought me back here after my parents died. It’s changed many times over the years; he always gave me free rein to decorate as I wanted.
When I came back after Grandpa’s stroke, I stayed here, initially. The walls are a soft dove grey with some of my own experiments dabbling in nature photography hung on the wall. I tried to keep it simple, but my artistic side came through on the ceiling, which I painted with a vibrant purple and a pink and orange sunset with fluffy clouds scattered throughout.
I kick off my shoes and peel off the clothes I’ve spent the day traveling and having an epic meltdown in. Then I dump them in a pile on the floor before opening a drawer and pulling out the first T-shirt my hand lands on. As I slip it over my head, I realize it’s Beckett’s shirt. The same one I wore after Grandpa’s funeral. A fresh pulse of grief hits.I’m getting so fucking tired of crying.But there’s no stopping it.
But with Beckett’s shirt wrapped around me, the pain doesn’t dig quite as deep. I slide beneath the cool, slightly musty sheets and take a deep breath.
It’s good that he didn’t come. I think I needed the cathartic release I just had in the kitchen, and I wouldn’t have let myself go like that if he was around. But now that it’s over, and a deep exhaustion is seeping into my bones, I wish Beck was here.
I miss him.
As if some unseen force has connected the two of us, my phone vibrates with an incoming call from him at that very moment. I run my tongue over my dry lips, then throw back the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed as I answer.
“Hey.”
His rich voice comes through the phone. “Hey yourself, how was the flight?”
