Page 114 of Gifts

I keep scrolling and can’t help but smirk.

—Well, I was shot yesterday and got drunk today. Oh, and I think Asa bought me a brand-new luxury car. SUV. Whatever. I don’t even know what to say about any of that.

That makes me angry all over again, so I scroll past it.

—Fuck, Asa Hollingsworth showed up at my house to take us to dinner. And I’m covered in paint!

—Oh, shit! Mister—I Can Be Sexy Changing a Tire is a parent of two of my students! And he wants to take me to dinner. Nope, I don’t care how sexy he is, I’m not going to dinner with anyone else. EVER AGAIN.

—I’m pissed.

Phase four thousand, three hundred and eighty-nine of the refurb is going to shit. I had the front stoop torn off. Jimbo started with the exterior and, since he’s only working in his free time, I’ll be lucky if it’s done by the time Knox starts high school.

Just like with all previous phases, I blame this one on you, too. If I have to live in the country, my house is going to look like a Christmas card—

“Hey. Did she text?”

Dammit. I didn’t hear her and I always hear everything.

She’s standing there barefoot in tight leggings and a tank top. Looking at me curiously, she tries again. “Asa? Did she say if the caterer was free?”

My eyes drop to her phone I shouldn’t be reading, but am. Holding it up so she can see what I found, her gaze drops to the screen and her eyes go big. She takes a step back, uttering, “Oh, shit.”

*****

Keelie

He found it.

Oh, fuck. I forgot it was even there. I haven’t thought about it in weeks.

“I told Danielle you’d get back with her.” He looks at me carefully, guarded, and dammit, almost like he’s studying me. “Thought it didn’t go through because you had an undeliverable notification, but it did. Instead I found a whole string of undeliverables.”

My insides drop. Just when I think I know him, I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Oh, fuck. What’s he thinking?

He looks down to my phone again and adds, “To David.” He looks up, narrowing his eyes and asks carefully, “You text your dead husband?”

“It’s not what you think,” I spit out, my heart beating so strong, it’s echoing in my ears with fear. “I mean, I don’t know what you’re thinking. But I’m not keeping anything from you.”

He sets my phone on the counter between us and lowers his voice. “Okay.”

“I forgot all about it. It’s not even sent to anyone—it’s just his name, and I started it forever ago. When I started seeing my therapist—he, he wanted me to journal. But to sit down and put my thoughts on paper after what David did to me … and then after he died … it was just too depressing, but I was so angry. It’s like every other stage hit me quick and passed, but the anger … it dug itself in deep, like it was rooted in my soul and wouldn’t leave. It was so heavy, there were some days I couldn’t take it. I found it easier just to rattle off texts here and there. It didn’t bring me down, and once I got something off my chest, I’d quit obsessing. It became sort of a weird habit.” All of a sudden, so many words are banging around my fucked-up head, I can’t get them out fast enough to defend myself. This is so off-the-charts crazy, I wouldn’t blame him if he grabbed his kids and ran at the speed of light. Who texts their dead spouse for more than a year with hate messages? But he can’t leave me now—not over this. Oh, please. Not over this. I can’t stop talking, so I lamely add, “I tend to obsess.”

His response comes quick. “I know, baby.”

“Please don’t…” I pause, having no clue how to explain myself. Instead, I panic. “I was going to say, please don’t think I’m a freak, but I think it’s too late for that. Just … please trust me—I’ve stopped.”

He takes a step closer. “I trust you.”

As much as I want to be near him, to touch him, I step back. “I’m sorry. If it makes it any better, I think I’m done with my therapist. It’s been weighing on me with my next appointment coming up. I haven’t even…” I motion toward my damn phone, “done that in weeks—I’m good. I promise. I mean, I think I’m good.”

He holds his hand out for me. “Come here.”

I shake my head and amend my comment. “No. I’m definitely good, finally, because of you,” I feel my damn eyes well up again. “You know, relatively speaking.”

“You’re killing me, baby.” He takes the last step separating us, and before I can move, grabs my hand, pulling me to him. “Stop talking.”

I allow him to wrap me up in his arms, pressing my face into his chest and try to control my tears. “I just don’t want you to think I’m hung up on the past. I love you. I’ve never been more sure about anything.”

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