Page 7 of The Problem with Dating

I could almost feel her in the ink droppings. I could almost see her in the letters. I could almost hear her in the words.

I wasn’t sure if that was a curse or not.

As I sat, I began to organize the diaries in chronological order. They started when Teresa was sixteen years old. The idea of a young Teresa made my mind swirl. What was she like? How did her thoughts look?

There was probably a special kind of evil when it came to people who read someone else’s diary entries, but seeing as how Teresa was no longer around, I figured it wouldn’t hurt because I wasn’t ready to let her go. I wasn’t prepared to lose her completely. Reading her words, her mind, and her thoughts felt like I had a little bit more time with her.

That was all I needed—a little bit more.

Dear Diary,

I hate America. I hate Honey Creek. I want to go back to Madrid.

But at least Peter is cute.

-Teresa

“You good in here?” a voice said, forcing me to shut the diary. I turned to see Noah standing behind me. We’d been best friends for years. His greasy brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. He and his fiancée, Mandy, came over to help me organize the house before putting it on the market. He arched an eyebrow toward the box. “What’s that?”

“Nothing. Old journals,” I replied as I stood.

“Her old journals?”

“Yup.”

“Dude.” He sighed, brushing his hand against his forehead. “That’s tough. How are you feeling?”

Busy. Tired. Overwhelmed. Sad.

Mostly sad.

“I’m good,” I lied. “I’m fine.”

A few hours ago, I received a call from the hospital that Teresa had passed away. My mind hadn’t caught up with her being gone yet. Instead, I distracted myself.

Noah kept looking at me as if he didn’t believe me, but he didn’t push too hard. He knew me long enough to know I’d close up even more if pushed. I wasn’t like him—expressive of my emotions. When Noah was sad, he said he was sad. He’d cry and fall apart and work through his feelings. Me, on the other hand? I’d push that shit so deep into my soul that I’d forget I had trauma to unpack until it erupted from me from someone burning something in my restaurant.

Unhealthy? Sure. True? Absolutely.

“Mandy and I got all the funeral stuff in order, so you don’t have to deal with that. It’s all handled,” Noah said.

“Thanks,” I muttered, rolling up my sleeves. I meant it, too. I didn’t want to deal with that, and Noah swept in at full speed ahead, taking on the task. Mandy was there to help, too, covering any corner left undusted.

Too bad I wasn’t going to attend the funeral.

It wasn’t my style.

I wouldn’t tell Noah that because he’d try convincing me to attend. I was too tired to argue. Too tired to feel. Too tired to exist.

I glanced down at my watch. “I’ve gotta get to the new restaurant to work a bit.”

Noah narrowed his eyes. “Have you been sleeping, buddy?”

“I’m fine,” I lied once more.

“It seems you’re burning at both ends, with your new spot opening soon.”

“That’s life.” A lot of burning.

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