Page 35 of Somewhere Without You
I dumped the groceries onto the counter, searching for the one thingthatmight take the edge off. The wine bottlewasheavy in my hands as I yanked the cork free. I didn’t bother with a glass, but instead, tilted the bottle straight to my lips, letting the wine carve a hot, bitter trail down my throat.
Whenitwasclear one sipwasn’tenough, I chased it down with another,thenanother until the edges of the world softened and my anger numbed. Iwasnever much of a drinker.Especiallynot after watching Jacksonslowlydrown himself in the stuff night after night.Butwine? Winewasmadefrom grapes, sotechnicallyIwasjustkeeping up with my daily fruit intake.
Looking out the kitchen window, I surveyed the garden, now soaked in amber and violet hues of the setting sun. The mountains in the distance cast long shadows across the earth, silhouetted against a rich colored sky.
Another swig. This time, it went down like water.
I turned away, pressing my back to the sink as my eyes landed on the table where several love letters sat, addressed to a woman who would never read them. The wine buzzed through my veins as I pushed off the counter and made my way over, collapsing into a dining chair with a gracelessthud.
“You and I. . . we’re not so different, are we?”I slurred, speaking to the ghost of James. A hiccup slipped out, and Ilazilylicked a trail of red merlotthathaddribbleddown the neck of the now half-empty bottle.
I picked up one of the letters, taking care not to stain the paper. James’s handwriting curled across the page like ivy clinging to stone.
“Your wife died. My husband turned out to be a raging asshole,”I mused, my voice thick with wine and bitterness.“Buthey. . . he’s gone now, so, same difference.”
Jacksonhadn’tdied, but he might as well have. He died to me. It didn’treallymatter—the resultwasthe same.
A wave of nausea, unrelated to the alcohol, hit me.
James, with his grief etched into every word, poured his heart out—knowing, deep down,thattherewould never be an answer. No reply. No comfort. No closure.
Andme? Iwasnursing my own kind of heartbreak—a slower, more corrosive kind. Less tragic,maybe, butjustas ruinous.
The bottle tilteddangerouslyclose to empty and my headwasswimming.
Fuck it.
I lurched to my feet, knocking the chair over behind me. Tearing open Gran’s junk drawer, I rifled through old batteries and takeout menus until I found a pen and a crumpled pad of paper. I wouldn’tgetclosure.Butmaybeone of uscould.
I gathered James’s letters and set them aside, careful not to tear them. My hand trembled as I focused on the page, trying to make my handwriting neat—not like it mattered,he’dnever read it.Butthiswasn’tfor him, itwasfor me. An opportunity to shed my emotions, to process my own grief.
The winehadgonesour on my tongue as I pressed the pen down and began to write.
May 12th, 2023
Dear James,
You don’t know me. I mean, I’m writing this nearly 200 years in the future, so. . . yeah, not exactly a typical introduction. I found what I thinkwasyour old bag hidden in my grandma’s fireplace, and insidewereyour letters to Charlotte. I read them all. IknowIprobablyshouldn’t have, but I did.
I don’tknowexactlywhat you went through, but Igetit. I’ve lost everyone I’ve ever loved. My mom, my gran, my sister. . .evenmy husband.Thatlast onewasprobablyfor the best, though. You spend so long clinging to peoplejustto keep yourself from floating away, andthenone day, youlookaround and realizethere’s no one left to tether you anymore. That’s where I’m at. Floating alone.Now I’m trying to figure out how to be okay withthat.
I can’t stop thinking about how much you loved her. I don’t think I’ve everhadthat. I don’t think I’ve everreallyloved myself either, which sounds dramatic, but it’s true.NowthatI’m alone, I’m kind of realizing I don’tevenknowhow. I hope, wherever your wife is, sheknowshowdeeplyshewasloved. I think we all deserve toknowthatkind of love at least once in our lives.
It’s strange. I never believed in fate before.Butnow, holding your letters, itfeelslike Iwasmeantto find them. Like Iwasmeantto find you. I don’tknowwhat ended up happening to you, but I hope wherever you are, you and Charlotte found each other again.
Your words reminded methatevenwhen everything falls apart, something beautiful can still remain. Thank you forthat. I needed it.
Your friend from the future,
Emily Hart
Twenty One
Myheadthrobbed.Sunlightstabbed through a gap in my curtains, landing hard on my face. I groaned, rolled onto my back, and ran my tongue across my wine-stained teeth. My mouth tasted like something had died in it. Classic hangover.
“Fuck,”I groaned, my voice agravelyrasp.
Water. I needed water.
