Page 1 of You Cake My Breath Away

Chapter one

Tilly

Today, I will make the bed.

I’ve told myself this repeatedly for the last six months. Yet, the soft fibers of the wool carpet pull me into its depths as I stare at my biggest foe. In its defense, it did nothing to warrant my ire. The smooth bamboo sheets and sage green duvet are soft and welcoming, and even though I’ve washed them plenty, they still manage to hold my husband’s scent within the threads. Or at least that’s what my brain tells me.

It’s been too long since I’ve been able to make Jessie’s side of the bed, to pretend that the covers aren’t disheveled because he overslept and was late for work or that he’s simply in the bathroom brushing his teeth.

Pillows are piled up in the middle, a makeshift mountain range that curves in the exact way he used to hold me. One pillow between my calves where he’d sneak his cold feet for warmth, one nestled around my rear where our bodies met, one where his broad chest met my back, and a smaller one, long and round, where his arm wrapped around me, making me feel safe.

When I close my eyes, I can almost imagine it’s him.

But the sunlight streaming in through the window highlights the empty space where the love of my life took his last breath.

I promised myself—and my therapist—that I’d make progress in restarting my life. Plenty of philosophers and entrepreneurs wax poetic about how making the bed first thing in the morning can set your dayon a positive path, but by the way my stomach aches just looking at the space, I think they’re wrong.

“Tilly?” Shantel’s chipper voice echoes from the living room, snapping me from my daze.

Tears prickle behind my closed eyes, pushing over the rubbed raw lids and streaming down my cheek. I wipe them away and scurry into the closet, so Jessie’s sister thinks I’m making actual progress sorting through the clothes I told her I’d donate months ago.

Her keys jangle loudly as she nears the bedroom, and the nutty notes of her hazelnut coffee hit my nose as she enters the space I shared with her brother. “Where are you?”

“In here.” My voice is scratchy as it claws its way up my tight throat. I wave a hand outside the closet and stand in front of Jessie’s clothes trying to gain my bearings before I see the disappointment etched into her features.

“Are you naked?” Shantel’s eyes are closed as she enters the closet, munching on one of the glazed lilac scones I baked last night. Her smooth brown skin is flawless and glowing, and I’m envious that she wears minimal makeup yet looks like she’s about to step onto a runway.

“No,” I reply, gaze moving to the row of band t-shirts Jessie loved to wear. He was all business outside of these walls, a regular Shemar Moore, but at home with me he was the guy who loved to karaoke and grill out on the weekends in sweats and slides.

“Phew.” Her eyes pop open and a smile breaks on her face. “Wow, you’re already doing it!”

I heave a sigh at her excitement. Donating Jessie’s clothes has been on my to-do list for months, but every time I’ve tried to let go of the items, I find myself curled up in a ball on the closet floor.

What can I say? I’m an expert at avoidance.

Shantel decided to appoint herself as my very own Marie Kondo when I let it slip that I was having trouble parting with the items. I’m already regretting my decision. I don’tneedthe space where his clothes hung for any reason. I rather liked being able to walk into the closet and rustle his old t-shirts where his bergamot cologne still clings to the material, greeting me like an old friend.

But I know it’s time.

I’m ready.

I think.

“How can I help?” Shantel sets down her cup and walks into the closet, careful not to touch me as she passes.

Stretching my neck side to side, I will the tension away from my shoulders. If I don’t do this now, I’ll stay stuck, unable to move forward after life ripped the carpet out from beneath me and stole my husband away.

To some people, moving on means selling a house or signing up for a dating profile, but to me it’s trying to make the damn bed and force myself to donate clothes that are just gathering dust.

I inhale a deep, calming breath and infuse my spine with steel nerves. “Grab me a trash bag.”

One anxiety attack and three hours later we’ve managed to pack all of Jessie’s suits and shoes, his undergarments, and most of his t-shirts—sans the one I’m wearing and the ones I refuse to part with. All that’s left are a few boxes piled in the corner.

“These scones are so good,” Shantel says around a mouthful. One benefit to my procrastinating is that I’ve been trying out new flavor profiles. The citrusy taste of lilac was a perfect addition to my mom’s old scone recipe. “Are you gonna take some to your dad?”

The mention of my dad sours my somewhat uplifted mood. We’ve been two ships in the night, and when I drop off my confections to him to sell in my parents’ restaurant, he’s always rushing me out like he doesn’t have time.

“No,” I reply, throwing my curly brown hair into a sloppy bun atop my head. “Maybe once I perfect the recipe.”

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