Page 7 of Compared
“I have an extra chair in my car.” The man jumps up before I can protest and heads to his car. I watch as he opens his trunk and pulls out another camp chair. He brings it back to his wife’s grave and sets it up for me. He extends his arm. “I’m Paul, by the way.”
I shake his hand before sinking into the seat. “Tyler.”
“Now, neither of us is alone, and I don’t think I’m the type of guy that is meant to be alone.” Paul smiles, and I try to convince myself I’m only staying to talk as a courtesy to him. It’s not likeIneed this. “Let’s talk about our wives,” he says as he bends over and picks up the box of tacos.
For some reason, Paul’s bluntness about being widowed is comforting. For once, it’s nice to have someone to talk to that understands a little of how I feel.
CHAPTER3
MEG
Most girls wallow in sadness when their boyfriend breaks up with them. They lie on couches with tubs of ice cream and watch the Hallmark channel until they can’t handle anymore small towns and lovey-dovey stares.
Not me.
I take my breakups like a woman—a mature woman.
I suck in another deep breath, filling my lungs to capacity, and belt out the next line of “I Will Always Love You.” At the same time, one fist goes to my mouth, acting as a microphone, while the other hand moves wildly to the melody of the song. I tilt my head way back, and—it’s embarrassing to say it—Iclosemy eyes. I’m really getting into the lyrics now.
The chorus swells, and so does my enthusiasm. I raise my voice as loud as I can to match the blasting music from my speaker. Whitney would be so proud. Then the music stops suddenly, leaving nothing but me, screeching in the silence.
I swear I sound better than that.
“Meg!”
I whip around, embarrassed about my kitchen concert, only to find my younger sisters, Brooke and Tessa, standing in the living room of my small apartment. Brooke has one hand on my Bluetooth speaker and the other on her hip.
I drop my makeshift microphone. “What are you guys doing here?” The words come out in short, quick breaths, like I’ve just run a mile. Who knew singing was such a workout?
“We came to see how you’re doing.” Tessa glances up and down my body, no doubt taking in my pajamas, disheveled hair, and makeup-less face. “It looks like you’re struggling.”
“I’m fine.” I tug at my ratty gray sweatshirt and look down. Where did that brown stain come from?
Then I remember. It was from one of the chocolate chip cookies I ate Friday night after Zak’s plateau picture. A warm morsel pulled apart from my bite and dripped down to my shirt like a piece of string. I scratch at the crusty chocolate with my fingernail, keenly aware that both of my sisters are watching me.
“You’re not fine,” Brooke says, picking up my phone. She tilts the screen toward Tessa as her finger scrolls upward. “Look at this playlist. Barbara Streisand. ABBA. Phil Collins. Whitney Houston. Olivia Newton-John.Barry Manilow.”
“Barry Manilow?” Tessa cuts in, giving me a disappointed look. “Not again.”
“What?” I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. “I love ‘Can’t Smile Without You.’”
“What’s with the geriatrics playlist?” she asks. “You’re not seventy years old.”
I walk over to the kitchen sink. Now is a good time to act like I care about the dishes that have been piling up for the last three days. I fiddle with a bowl that has dried cereal stuck to the rim. “Your concern about my choice of music is noted. Now you both can leave.”
Brooke pulls out a kitchen stool and sits down, leaning against the counter. Her brown hair is darker than my light blonde, but she’s added enough golden highlights to it that I’m not sure what color her hair is supposed to be anymore.
“It’s not your music we’re concerned about. It’s you. You’ve been hiding out in your apartment all weekend, listening to old breakup songs. You haven’t showered, and I’m guessing you’ve eaten an entire roll of store-bought cookie dough.”
She issowrong. I haven’t eaten an entire roll of store-bought cookie dough. I would never do something like that. Imademy own cookie dough and ate the whole thing. It tastes way better, and if I’m going to get salmonella poisoning, I’m going to do it the right way.
But Brooke is correct about everything else. Labor Day weekend came at the perfect time. I haven’t showered in days or changed my clothes, and my breakup playlist is on repeat. I’m the epitome of frumpish.
Fine.I’mnothandling the break up like a mature woman. I’m a complete wreck.
But everything’s still so fresh. It’s only been three days since Zak shattered my entire world.
I set down the cereal bowl and turn to face my sisters as new tears fill my eyes. “Mom told me to marry Zak.”
