Page 11 of Without You

Growing up it was like he barely tolerated his family, and as an extension of them, it seemed he didn’t like me very much either. He moved to Seattle as soon as he could, and for the longest time he only came back out of necessity.

It’s not a surprise his relationship with his parents, more so his mother, is strained. I’ve never seen it be anything else. The only person who has had a front row seat to his life, unconditionally, has been Victoria. And from the way Bill is describing Deacon and Elaine’s relationship, I can’t imagine Rhett’s death doing anything to make the tension better.

Beginning my nightly routine, I take my clothes off and chuck them into the laundry hamper. Cross-legged, I sit in the middle of the bed. I reach for the box and just stare at it; like I do every day.

I run my fingers over all the grooves and begin what’s become my daily ritual. The only time I let my heart bleed and feel all the things I’ve lost.

Lifting the lid, I stare at the six perfectly placed envelopes. I pick up the first one and trace every curve of my name on the thick pearlescent paper. Bold and black, Rhett’s writing was perfect. He mastered the art of calligraphy, insisting that a person’s handwriting revealed how they were feeling when they wrote the message. It was one of the many low endurance hobbies he picked up, insisting that dying didn’t mean that a person couldn’t still find ways to try and live.

Were they in a hurry? Were they careless? Was it important? Was the message life changing?

All those emotions are in every swirl of the dark ink. It’s the reason I can’t bring myself to open them. To see his feelings sprawled on the page, the words written with care and precision. To hear the sentences in his voice, and to breathe life into the future he expects me to have without him.

I put it back and then do the exact same thing another five times. I don’t touch anything else he’s meticulously placed in there. It’s not just by choice, it’s by necessity. I know the level of pain I can and cannot withstand. Every feeling has its day to be felt, and those days are far and away for me. In order for me to survive, I try not to feel anything at all.

Closing the lid, I shift the box back to Rhett’s side of the room and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. I open the drawer on my own nightstand and pull out the cylinder of sleeping pills.

Popping the cap open, I pluck out a tablet, stick it to the back of my throat and chase it down with a whole bottle of water. It usually takes about half an hour for the drowsiness to settle in, so I choose to pass the time with a steaming hot shower.

Letting the water loosen my muscles, I stay under the spray, stretching and rolling out my neck. I wait till the heat fills up every inch of the bathroom. I wait till the air is thick and my breathing becomes labored.

Turning the water off, I tug at the towel and wrap it around my waist. I stumble out of the shower and back into the bedroom. Light-headed and lethargic, I fall onto the bed, welcoming the numbness. I let myself enjoy the nothingness and yield to my favorite part of the day.

A few hours a night where there’s no Julian, no Rhett, no life and no death. There’s no loss, no pain, and no grief. It’s a blank space, a clean slate, a moment in time that just is.

Dark.

Quiet.

Peaceful.

A falsified moment of the only things I want, and the only thing I’ll never get.

* * *

“That will beone hundred and four dollars, thank you.” The cashier gives me a strained smile. The one that they plaster on because they’ll get fired if they’re not friendly, but it doesn’t quite reach their eyes, because their disdain for their job is too hard to hide.

I drag my wallet out of my back pocket and slide out my debit card. She holds up the credit card machine and I slip my card in the chip reader and punch in my pin.

“Do you want your receipt?” she asks.

“A reminder of the money I don’t have but keep spending?” I say sarcastically. I give her a reassuring wink. “I’m good, sweetheart. Have a good day.”

Pushing the cart out of the store, I stop beside my parked car and fumble around in my pocket for my keys. I unlock the trunk and then unload the bags inside. I don’t know why I still bother shopping for groceries. I end up chucking the stuff every other week, because they’re all the things Rhett used to love. The things he wanted to eat so bad but eventually the chemo and the medicine made it impossible.

It’s more than I need to be spending on my week-by-week paycheck, but I do it anyway. I don’t have any other needs besides my rent, so I splurge on food.

Climbing into the car, I turn the ignition, waiting for the rumble, but it never comes. I would like to say I’m surprised but this isn’t the first time this car has refused to start. It’s a black beat-up Toyota Rav 4 that Rhett’s parents gifted him when we finished school. It’s been nine years since then and this is just another thing of Rhett’s I can’t seem to let go of.

Some days I wake up and I want to eradicate every single thing of his from my life. I want to erase every single memory and all our history. And then every other day I pray that I’ll never ever forget him.

Grabbing my cell off the passenger seat, I scroll through to find the one number I hate calling.

Closing my eyes, I rest my head on the steering wheel and wait for an answer.

“Julian.”

“Mr.… I mean, Bill. I know you’re probably really busy, but um…”

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