Page 1 of Befriending the Bear
1
CALLOWAY
Another day. I stood at the kitchen counter, waiting for the kettle to boil, my hands wrapped around a chipped mug that had survived longer than most things in my life. The familiar ritual of making tea had become my anchor—precise movements that required no words, no explanations, no struggle to make myself understood.
Outside, my garden was beginning its September transformation. The tomato plants drooped with the weight of the last green fruits that would never ripen and the herbs had that desperate vitality that comes before the first frost. I’d need to harvest the basil today or tomorrow, maybe make pesto to freeze. These small tasks filled my days now, each one a tiny victory against the silence that pressed in from all sides.
The phone rang, shattering the morning quiet. Yes, I still had an old-fashioned landline. Of course I also had a cell phone, but very few people had that number. I didn’t believe in always being available, and on top of that, I hated being forced to speak at unexpected moments.
I let the call go to voicemail like I always did. My own voice filled the kitchen: “You’ve reached Calloway Gilstrap. Please leave a message.”
Even in the recording, I could hear the careful pronunciation, the way I’d practiced that simple sentence dozens of times to get it smooth.
“Calloway, it’s Janet. I know you’re probably screening, but I wanted to check in about the anthology deadline. We’d really love to have something from you about?—”
I hit the button to stop listening to the message. I knew what she wanted. Something about Marcus. Something about grief and healing and moving forward. As if moving forward was a destination you could reach rather than a daily decision to put one foot in front of the other.
The kettle whistled, and I poured water over the Earl Grey, watching the color bloom like ink in water. I’d discovered you could live an entire life without speaking if you were careful enough. Online grocery orders, self-checkout lanes, a small town where everyone knew your peculiarities and worked around them. It wasn’t living, exactly, but it was existing, and most days that felt like enough.
I carried my tea to the small table by the window, where a stack of books waited. They were my constant companions, my silent friends. On top was a volume of Mary Oliver poetry, pages soft from reading. I opened it randomly, a sort of bibliomancy I’d practiced since childhood, and froze.
There, pressed between “Wild Geese” and “The Journey,” was one of Marcus’s bookmarks. A strip of leather with his initials embossed in gold, worn smooth from his fingers. He’d had a dozen of them, scattered through our apartment like breadcrumbs, marking his place in whatever he was reading. I couldn’t read any further. My hands shook as I closed the book,trapping the bookmark back inside like I could trap the memory, keep it from ambushing me seven years later.
Seven years. Some days it felt like yesterday, finding him on the bathroom floor.
He’d collapsed while I was at the farmers’ market buying heirloom tomatoes. His shortness of breath and vague chest pain had been a pulmonary embolism rather than the beginning of a cold, like he’d thought. “He never felt a thing,” the pathologist who’d done the autopsy had assured me, but that offered little comfort.
Other days, it felt like I’d lost him a lifetime ago, like I’d been this version of myself—quiet, careful, old—forever.
I forced myself to pick up another book, desperate for some distraction. If I allowed the pain in, it would freeze me all over again, immobilize me to the point of becoming a complete hermit. And maybe this time, it would be forever.
Luckily, the collection of short stories managed to grab my attention, and it was eleven o’clock before I realized it. Time for my morning errands. I exchanged my pajamas for jeans, a button-down in muted gray, and the leather shoes I’d polished last night.
Marcus used to tease me about dressing like a college professor even on weekends. “My beautiful academic,” he’d say, straightening my collar, not caring that it sometimes took me three tries to say “I love you” back.
The walk to Brianna’s Bakery took twelve minutes if I didn’t dawdle. I’d timed it, knew exactly which streets to take to avoid the morning dog walkers who might want to chat, and how to avoid Mr. Taffy, who always clicked his tongue when he asked me a question and it took too long for me to answer. As if somehow, by some miracle, I could force myself to speak normally.
The September air carried the scent of wood smoke and the last blooming flowers. Forestville was showing off, starting its autumn display for the tourists who came to see the fall colors. I didn’t mind them. At least they usually left me alone.
The bell above Brianna’s door chimed as I entered, and Jamie looked up from the espresso machine. They didn’t smile—they’d learned I preferred the quiet acknowledgment of a nod—but their hands were already moving to prepare my order. Medium dark roast, no room for cream, and whatever pastry was the treat of the week on Mondays. Today was Monday.
“Morning, Calloway,” Jamie said, their voice pitched low and calm. They had a gift for creating pockets of quiet in the bustling bakery, positioning their body to shield our transactions from the curious eyes of tourists. “The usual?”
I nodded, grateful as always for their understanding. Jamie had been working here for two years now, ever since they’d moved to Forestville from Seattle. They’d told me once, during a rare slow afternoon, that they’d come here to escape the noise of the city. I understood that impulse better than most.
While Jamie worked, I let my gaze drift over the familiar interior. Brianna had kept the exposed brick walls when she’d renovated, and the morning light caught the copper of the espresso machine, turning it molten. A couple sat in the corner, sharing a cinnamon roll and speaking in low voices. The woman laughed, touching the man’s hand, and I looked away.
“Here you go.” Jamie slid the coffee and paper bag across the counter. Our fingers didn’t touch, another thing they’d learned. They rang me up, and I tapped my card against it. “Have a good day, Calloway.”
I managed a small smile, clutching my coffee like a lifeline as I headed for the door. The bell chimed again, too loud, and I nearly collided with someone coming in.
“Oh, sorry—” The man stepped back, and I got an impression of height, broad shoulders, the scent of sawdust and something clean, like pine soap. His voice was deep, careful. “Didn’t see you there.”
I ducked my head, mumbling something that might have been “S-s-sorry” or might have been nothing at all, and escaped onto the sidewalk. My heart was racing, which was ridiculous. It was a near-miss in a doorway, the kind of thing that happened a dozen times a day in any small town. But my body didn’t care about logic. It remembered a time when accidental touches led to intentional ones, when a stranger’s voice might have been the beginning of something instead of another reminder of everything I couldn’t have.
This is enough,I told myself, walking faster, eager for the sanctuary of home. I’d stop by Collins tomorrow. I needed peace and quiet now.This has to be enough.
But the coffee was bitter on my tongue, and the bookmark in the Mary Oliver collection seemed to pulse with memory, even from across town.
