Page 62 of The Space Between
“I just... I thought I’d feel abandoned. Like I always used to after—” She swallows. “But I didn’t. I felt...okay.”
What?
I take a slow step closer. “You didn’t look okay just now.”
She shrugs. “Sometimes cryingisokay, Gruene. It’s just a way to cleanse. It doesn’t have to be…bad. I’ve cried so many tears in pain and shame and heartbreak… it was powerful to cry because I just feelsomuch.”
I nod once. “I wouldn’t know.”
Her eyes soften. Then, she steps aside. “You want to come in?”
I do and I don’t.
I shouldn’t. I should leave. But my feet move before I can stop them.
Her cabin smells like cedar and her shampoo.
Music is playing low… something country, not quite sad.
She heads to the kitchen and grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, before she turns, handing it to me.
Taking it, I twist the cap off, and sip.
“I couldn’t sleep last night,” she says without looking at me. “I was tired and I wanted to sleep, but I couldn’t.”
“Me either.” I reply. But I never sleep. In dreams they come and I’m not strong enough to face them.
She glances at me . “You didn’t want to?”
“Didn’ttryto.” I say.
She nods. “Same.”
Silence stretches until I break it. “I thought about coming over.” Her breath catches. “I didn’t because I didn’t know if that would make it harder.”
She closes the fridge. “It would’ve made it realer.”
“It was already real, Blakelyn. That’s the problem.” I grunt.
Her voice is soft. “I know. That’s what scares me.”
I set the bottle down and take two steps toward her. Before I can stop myself, her name leaves my mouth, “Blakelyn.” It tastes like sin and salvation in the same breath. She turns to face me. “I don’tdothis. I don’t knowhowto do this.”
“I’m not asking you to.” She quietly says.
What? What does she mean?
I blink and she says, “Gruene, I’m just asking you tokeepshowing up. That’s it.”
I stare at her, and suddenly, I can’t stay still. I pace the length of her living room once. Twice. Then, I stop in front of the window that looks out over the river but I’m not seeing the river. “Molly used to put little lavender-scented candles everywhere,” I say, my voice low. “Said the smell helped her sleep.” She doesn’t say anything, so I keep going, staring out of a window but seeing the past. “I hated them. The sickly sweet smell turned my stomach. I hated the way they’d drip down the sides and pool on the wood, stripping off the finish. I hated the way she’d forget to blow them out and I’d have to go through the house and double check everything every single night.” I exhale and swallow before saying, “God, I miss those fucking candles so much I think about lighting one just to feel her here again.”
She steps closer. I feel her behind me, but she doesn’t touch me. “Gruene, talk about her. It’s okay. She was your wife. I want you to. Talk about them both if you want to.”
I can’t…
I fucking can’t. Because talking about them with you feels wrong.
I shake my head. “I don’t. I can’t. Not yet.”
