Page 36 of Return To You

It was—still is—an awesome-looking box, way more deserving of its precious contents than the blue sneakers box that was falling apart. Yet Damian sits on it, the lid caving in slightly.

It’s okay. I’m not that cray-cray. It’s just a box. “Damian, move,” I finally say, shooing him away from the lid. I can’t help it.

He squints at me and stays put. Not budging.

Okay, then. Whatever. It’s not about the lid anyway.

I move my gaze to the contents of the box, two decades worth of memories that carry meaning only for me. Usually, it’s a feel-good moment, this time alone, under the watchful eye of Damian. A moment when I relive the good times, the hopes, the dreams.

When I don’t feel so alone.

When I rewrite the present. How things could have been, should have been. And for a few minutes, I’m in my fantasy life. And it feels good.

Tonight, however, it’s hard.

These aren’t memories anymore. These aren’t dreams.

These are proof perfect that I live in my own universe that does not align with the real world.

And seeing Ethan, and him being everything I ever imagined he’d become and even better, but not being these things to me, with me—a best friend, a lover, a husband, the father of my children.

I’m not gonna lie, it’s hard this time.

God I need to get out of this funk.

“What d’you think, Damian?” I contemplate the disposable mug that held the Harvest Hug Ethan brought me on Monday, with my name in his handwriting on it.

Damian meows.

“I agree.” I stand, rinse the inside of the cup carefully one last time, and wipe it. Then I add it to the box. With the two pucks, the jersey, carved wooden figurines, the letters, the newspaper clippings, a tiny twine ring protected by a ziplock, a dried mistletoe turning to dust, and a carved tree bark.

Probably the last thing I’ll add.

Although, not sure what I’ll do with the travel mug, once he gives it back to me.

If he gives it back to me.

It’s really pretty. If I used it every day, it would be like having Ethan with me. Like he might pop up at any time. Like he’s not really gone and he might say, “Hey, Grace, gimme the mug back so I can get you a Harvest Hug tomorrow.”

Like maybe we’d be as I wish we were, where I’d get his hugs.

And his kisses.

Damian meows loudly at me.

“Okay, okay, time’s up, I know.”

Damian stands from the lid and lifts it with his nuzzle. I place it back on the box, careful not to squoosh the mug, then slip it on the shelf right next to the door. Where I can see it every day.

Twice a day at least.

“What’cha say, Damian? It’s Thursday.” Thursday is Game Night in Emerald Creek. A women’s-only gathering in the back of Cassandra’s lingerie shop. We play games as an excuse to get together, gossip together, sometimes cry together, always laugh together.

Damian meows enthusiastically and runs to his bowl.

Sometimes I wonder if he has dog genes.

I refill his kibble, then make myself a sandwich and eat it standing above my sink so I don’t get anything dirty. I drink a glass of water, and a second.

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