Page 6 of When We Meet Again

CHAPTER 3

WAVERLY

ONE YEAR LATER…

Fortunate: I found a new Cuban sandwich shop that delivers so I don’t have to leave my house. This fortunate/unfortunate tracker may be just the thing I need.

Unfortunate: I buried my fiancé and I don’t know who I am anymore without him.On the other hand, maybe writing these are a bad idea.

Home without Patrickdoesn’t feel like home.

It’s unfortunate-looking furniture all tied together in semblance of a living space that have all seen better days in their first homes. That’s right. Patrick never wanted to buy furniture new “when there is perfectly decent furniture heavily discounted.”

Over the past year since his death, I splurged. I got rid of the hideous, second-hand tan couch that smelled like it harbored a family of opossums, and indulged in a Lovesac. Then went the coffee table I’d stub my toes on at least twice a week. It’s been a slow process, but slowly it’s becoming mine.

The one thing I did end up keeping was the 72-inch screen smart TV. He bought that brand new. Full price.Go figure.

"We're as happy as two can be..." I sing to myself, not caring enough that my voice is pitchy. Something about bingingI Love Lucysoothes the soul. Brain popcorn. Mindless TV about a redhead and her husband.

"I guess they slept in separate beds, too," I murmur to myself as I pull a day-old piece of pizza from the box.

The past six months have been monotonous, to say the least. I’ve spoken to my friend Victoria only a handful of times, but I’ve mostly been dodging her calls. My days are spent at the dog shelter, a job I’ve had for over a decade, and my evenings and weekends locked up at home. The notes to and from Tom have become the new normal for me, which is maybe my only saving grace.

I now live on my couch. It's become a staple in the mourning process, and it's meant to be lived on. Plus, I can’t go into our room. I’ve tried. But Patrick’s clothes sit in neat stacks all over the bed. All over the floor. I'm not in the mood to clean that shit right now. I'll hire someone if I have to.

Today is February twenty-fifth: Patrick’s forty-first birthday—or what would have been. I called in sick with work for the rest of the week, not wanting to be near anybody. My mom keeps texting me, insisting I go to grief counseling, but what good is that? I don’t want to keep talking about it. I don’t want to relive that day any more than I already do. I’m comfortable with going through the motions.

Tom sent me a letter and I can’t bring myself to get back to him. The memory of giving him my address is vague. Almost like the entire trip was a fever dream. I’m pushing everyone away and I hate myself for it. To some, it’s a silent scream for help, but for me, it’s how I deal with stuff. Like usual, I’ll resurface at some point.

I chug out of my gallon water bottle, trying my best not to let myself travel too far down this depressive rabbit hole for muchlonger. Maybe one more episode… I press play and prepare to slide into a final thirty minutes of oblivion, but just as Lucy and Ethel are set to start work at the candy factory, my doorbell rings. I'm an elder millennial—I'll drop to the ground and play dead before you catch me opening the door. So, I pause the TV and freeze. Because if I don't move, they won't see me. Not that there's a chance—all the blinds have been closed like I'm a bear in hibernation, and the back of the couch hides me from the door.I'm safe.

They ring the bell again.Jesus. Take a hint. Nobody’s home.

I wait for what seems like an eternity before whoever it is stops ringing the damn doorbell and I can press play again.

“This is my favorite part,” I murmur to myself.

"Kensi?"

"Holy shit!" I scream, holding the remote like a knife, still lying on the couch.

Roman stands in the doorway, hands in the air with two fingers gripping a piece of silver.

Does he have a key? Since when does he have a key?

"Sorry… I saw your car in the driveway, and when you didn't answer the doorbell, or my emails, or the texts, or…the calls, the carrier pigeons for the past year, I, uh...."Emails?I smile to myself. He stops himself, hands falling only slightly as he looks around at the state of the apartment. He doesn't say anything before he tucks the key back into his coat pocket.

Roman’s the first person I've seen in a year. Aside from the pizza delivery boy and Mr. Kim, the owner of Thai Garden—who I must say personally delivered all of my orders—rain or shine. He was kind enough to give me double of everything I ordered. News about Patrick spread like wildfire, and since Thai Garden was our go-to take-out twice a week, Mr. Kim made it clear it was his duty to keep me fed until I feel 'my negative energy clears’. Whatever that means. Working at the shelter takes up most ofmy time. Training the teenagers who volunteer there distracts me well enough. They don’t ask questions about my personal life, and for that, I’m thankful. They come in, do what they’re asked and go home.

I lie back down and rest the remote on my stomach. "I didn't know you had a key, Rome. And who the hell sends emails these days?” I scoff. “What are you doing here?" His pinched brows relax as he steps closer. Not too close, though.Thank God.I'm not in the business of giving many fucks right now, but personal hygiene around anyone is still a fuck I do care to give. And one I most definitely can’t promise right now.

"Patrick gave it to me when you guys moved in. Not really sure why. I came to see if you wanted to..." His thumb points behind him toward the door. "Maybe grab some food? Get out of the apartment?"

I take another bite of the hard, room-temp pizza and start chewing with a blank expression on my face.

“It’s been a year. I’m fine,” I deadpan.

“I’m sorry. Working through my own personal demons and mourning my brother ended up taking longer than expected.” He takes a hand and pulls at the roots of his hair.

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