Page 1 of Both Sides Now

Prologue

CALLISTA

MANCHESTER, ENGLAND

From my periphery, I watch the mourners adjourn, some giving my arm a squeeze as they pass and cast a last glance at the casket that holds my life.

My Charlie.

Cancer doesn’t discriminate. My husband is proof of that fact. He battled the demon for two long years, never once admitting he wouldn’t emerge victorious.

That’s what you do, right? Never admit defeat, or defeat wins.

Defeat won anyway.

“Come on, luv. Let’s get you fed.” My best friend, Shawn, wraps an arm around my shoulder in a futile effort to shield me from the wet English weather. But despite his best intentions, his warmth is no match for the ice that has taken up residence where my heart once existed.

“I’m not hungry.” It’s the truth. I subsisted on crackers and hope for the last three months. Now hope is no longer an option.

“Callista, don’t make me pull the doctor card.”

“It’s not like I’d listen, regardless.” Despite my current obstinate attitude, I’m indebted to Shawn. Without him, I likely wouldn’t be upright. He’s been my rock these last couple of years. No surprise, as he’s been my constant since childhood. A lousy boyfriend but aces in the best friend department.

Thankfully for my other best friend, Suzanne, he’s also aces in the husband department. Seven years together, and they still behave like newlyweds.

As if I should talk. I behave that way with Charlie, too.

Behaved.

I blink back tears, thankful for the misty air covering their tracks. I know it’s normal to weep at a funeral. Standard fare, really. But I’m hardly anyone’s definition of normal. I haven’t cried, not a real breakdown anyway, since Charlie passed. How could I? There was no time for tears—just a boatload of arrangements to be handled between two continents with an ocean between them.

Part of me wanted to fight Charlie’s parents when they insisted he be laid to rest in his hometown. It’s thousands of kilometers from our home in New York. But instead of bickering, I let them bring their son back across the Atlantic. After all, it’s just a marker, and England will always be our birthplace.

Besides, although I enjoy our small mountain town, it’s never felt like home. Merely a resting point between my adventures with Charlie. We often discussed moving, but then he got sick, and new adventures were shelved along with the rest of our lives.

I swipe at the agony dripping down my face, aggravated I’m making a public display. During Charlie’s illness, until the last few weeks anyway, I was the bright and sunny cheerleader—optimistic on the outside, dying on the inside.

Bad luck, though. I didn’t die. My darling husband did. My death will be a slow and torturous period of minutes and hours, waiting until this life is over. This torment of a life.

Both of our families have rallied around me, waiting for that moment when I’ll crack, and the floodgates will give way. I hate to break it to them, but that’s not happening any time soon. Perhaps it’s my English upbringing, but I choose to grieve privately. The last thing I need—or want—is pity.

“Come on, Callista.” Shawn grips my elbow. He’s obviously eager to move us both to a dry, warm location.

What he fails to understand is that the cold drops flicking my skin are the only thing I’ve felt since Charlie drifted away a week earlier. The icy mist is currently the sole reminder that I’m still stuck on this rock. Alone.

That, and I can’t just leave Charlie here. We barely spent a night apart during our marriage. How am I supposed to spend a lifetime without him by my side?

I focus my gaze on the cloud-riddled sky, which serves as a backdrop for his flower-strewn casket. Charlie often commented how the stormy skies, with their tumultuous blend of grey, purple and black, matched my eyes.

Like I said, I’m hardly the definition of normal. To many, my eyes are unnerving—a bit too large, far too intense. Charlie never saw them that way. In fact, he told me on our first date that it was my eyes that first grabbed his attention.

That, and my bum.

Boys will be boys.

My fingers trace along the blanket covering the casket. What a pitiful attempt to keep him warm. He was never warm at the end. I would snuggle in with him, my ass sweating under layers of blankets, while his poor body shook against an unending chill.

Now, this pathetic excuse for a cloth is supposed to protect him from the elements?

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