Page 35 of A Me and You Thing
Not the best attitude, but I figure I’m allowed. If I feel like being pissed, I let myself be pissed. If I feel like being unsocial, I let myself be unsocial. Going with the flow of unwanted emotions is the only way to survive. I feel like I jumped onto a roller coaster—unwillingly. And there’s no way off.
“I’ve come to help, and I won’t take no for an answer.”
I notice the pile of suitcases behind her as she pushes her way inside.
She grabs my babies, one in each arm and says, “Put my luggage in the guest room, please.”
I watch Bree take the stairs with ease as she heads for their bedroom, presumably to put them in their pajamas.
My lips compress together tightly as I slam the front door. What now?
I haven’t seen her since the funeral. I’m not in the mood to hear her—or anyone—tell me how awful I still look. I lost my wife. If I want to look awful, that’s my choice. Don’t they know it’s an outward manifestation of inner turmoil?
Probably not. I hope they never experience it.
I move her luggage into the foyer—enough luggage for her to stay forever. What does she think she’s doing?
I trudge upstairs and find her talking to the girls in a sing-song voice, one I’ve never heard from her before. She has them captivated as she dresses them, which is no easy feat. Normally they’re like dressing constantly moving monkeys.
“Are their bottles ready?” she says without turning around.
How does she know I’m standing in the doorway? I run downstairs to grab their bottles.
It’s bedtime. The most glorious part of the day.
Back upstairs, I find her sitting in the rocking chair, reading the girls a book.
Once the girls are down, she exits the room and closes the door.
She places her hands on her hips. “The guest room is a mess. Is someone else staying here?”
“Yeah. Me.”
“You’re sleeping in the guest room?”
“My bedroom is big. Really big. So is my bed. Big and lonely and haunted. I don’t like it.”
“Get used to it. I don’t want to sleep in there either. I’ll clean the guest room while you move your stuff out.”
I fold my arms. “What are you doing, Bree? I don’t need to be saved. We’re managing.”
“I’m moving in. You need help whether you realize it or not.”
“I’m... we’re doing fine.” I unclench my teeth and try not to lose my cool.
“I can see that. But you have bills to pay. I’m pretty sure that means you have to go back to work someday like a big boy.”
Quinn always called Bree sassy. I would have to agree. Her honesty is as fresh—and sometimes as stinging—as the ocean breeze, which is why I nicknamed her Breezy in the first place. Although I never told Quinn that little tidbit. I think I told Quinn she was a breath of fresh air. It sounded kinder. But that was a lifetime ago. Without Quinn here as a buffer, the nickname feels uncomfortable.
“I’m not hurting for money.”
She smirks. “Life insurance has a way of making up for a world of hurt, but it doesn’t last forever. You need to keep your jobs. You need me, and I’m here.”
The life insurance money hasn’t even come through as of yet, but when it does, it will be tucked away into an account for Josie and Jordyn’s college tuition. I don’t plan on touching it.
Bree heads for the guest room and starts tearing the sheets off the bed. “There are crumbs in the sheets. Have you been eating in bed?”
I don’t answer. It makes me sound pathetic.
