Page 73 of Boyfriend
“Exactly.”
He shakes his head. “That’s tricky. Because you got your issues, but Abbi’s got more. She’s not a starter girlfriend.”
“A what?”
“She needs a pro, right? Not someone who gets itchy about commitment.”
“Right,” I agree.
“Hmm,” Tate says. “Did you end up inviting her to your sister’s wedding in May?”
“No, I didn’t,” I say slowly. “I doubt Abbi will still be around by then.”
“Maybe that’s for the best,” Tate says. “It sends a whole other message, you know? Weddings make people crazy.”
“Yeah? I’m pretty sure marriage makes people crazy. But weddings just make people drunk and horny.”
“I dunno, man.” Tate grins. “Be careful who you take to a wedding. All that devotion and commitment is, like, contagious. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But you gotta be ready to receive that pass when the winger sends it.”
“Yeah. Thanks for the advice.” I drain my coffee. Devotion and commitment are not a good look on me. Sad but true.
Does that make me an asshole for spending time with Abbi?
I only wish I knew.
Twenty-Six
Not Thinking Big Enough
Abbi
Dalton picks me up in a car that smells like roses. On the back seat waits a beautiful bouquet of multicolored flowers in a sturdy basket. I stare out the window at the overcast sky as he drives to the cemetery.
These past three years I've learned that grief is like a chronic disease. Some days are good days, and you barely think about it at all. But then there are the flare-ups, when you feel terrible and can’t imagine ever feeling happy again.
Today it hurts. A lot. And I can’t think of any reason why the pain should stop.
We arrive at her gravesite before I'm ready. Because I'll never be ready. And we climb out of Dalton’s car into an empty parking lot.
Last year the snow was knee deep. But today there’s only patchy snow and ice on the ground as we pick our way through the soggy, winter-brown grass.
This is a quiet little cemetery halfway between Burlington and Shelburne. But as I approach her headstone, I feel so much emptiness. My mother isn’t really here. She's gone from this world. And this plot of brown, snow-clotted earth—with a generous hunk of granite carved with her name—is just a place that we go to have somewhere to put our sadness.
We need this place, though. Especially today. I take the roses out of Dalton’s hands and place them carefully in front of the stone. They’re beautiful, but I don’t believe that she can actually see them.
Only Dalton and I can, as we shiver here under the winter sky, trying and failing to think of the right things to say to each other. I watch Dalton swipe a tear away, and I have to bear down to avoid my own from springing forth. If I cry right now, I might never stop.
It's excruciating. And yet I still see the point of this exercise. We either come here to purge ourselves of a small amount of our pain, or else we’ll drown in it alone. I don’t like it. But I understand it.
Next year, though, I probably won't be here. I'll be in an office somewhere in a distant city. Dalton will call me and tell me he delivered the roses. And I’ll thank him.
Dalton is a good man. He loved my mother. He saw the joy inside her. He used to take her dancing. He even tried to teach her to play golf, but she couldn’t seem to get the hang of it. So he switched her country club membership to “pool only” with a cheerful shrug.
I’m glad she had his love in her life, even if she was robbed of the years she deserved to enjoy it.
Mom, I guess you quit while you were ahead, I say inside my mind. But I’m taking a serious deduction from your score for that terrible dismount.
"Shall we?" Dalton says eventually, saving me from my awkward internal monologue.
