Me After You (2 page)

She pushes her red-framed glasses on top of her head, brushing her frizzy hair out of her face. “Yeah, but I like to think one of these times you’ll surprise me.”

“I’m a creature of habit.” I shrug.

She smirks, leaning against the counter, and points her pencil at me. “You know you could change it up every now and then. There are a ton of options.”

“I prefer it black, but I can’t make it at home as good as this stuff.”

She nods. “All right, all right. I’ll make an extra delicious cup just for you. Just give me a minute.”

I stuff my hands in my pockets and wait beside the counter as she walks away.

“…what happened to Sawyer’s husband?”

My heart jolts in my chest. I haven’t heard her name in years. It plays in my mind like a broken record, but no one ever says her name anymore. Especially in front of me.

“He was murdered,” a voice whispers behind me, but it’s such a loud whisper I’m almost positive the entire café heard her.

“Sawyer Hartwell?” I hear disbelief in another’s voice.

“Yes, Dotty. That’s what I said.”

The air in my lungs is compressed. I can’t breathe. If I thought my headache was bad before…

“Oh, that poor thing. How will she ever recover?”

“You don’t ever recover from something like that.”

And I hate the way she says it because it sounds so wrong, and yet so right.

“Bless her heart. Do they know who did it?”

“I’ve heard that it was a random act. I’m not sure if they found the suspect or not.”

“What a wretched thing to happen.”

I turn to see the women seated at a table behind me. “Nora says she can’t get her out of bed. The poor girl won’t eat. Been lying in that bed for almost a week straight, she said. Probably longer now. I haven’t talked to her since last week.”

“Would
you
be able to get out of bed?”

“No, I don’t suppose I would.”

Ms. Dotty gets up to leave and sees me. Her hand darts to her chest in surprise.
Busted
. She forces a smile as if she doesn’t know I heard every bit of their conversation. “Oh, hello, Dean.”

“Morning, Ms. Dotty,” I mutter after clearing my throat. The shock must be written all over my face as much as I try to hide it.

Haley has apparently been repeating my name because she says it with more force than necessary. When I turn, her eyebrows are scrunched together in concern and she says, “Your coffee.” I take it from her hands, dropping some cash on the counter—who knows if it’s the right amount—and walk out as quickly as I can manage without actually running.

I don’t want them to see me lose it. My brain can’t decide what to process first. It spins around and around so fast I feel like it might burst into a million pieces.

Sawyer is finally back.

But her husband is gone. And this should alleviate the heaviness that has been weighing on me for years, but it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. The heaviness spreads completely through me as the painful realization sets in. Sawyer must be devastated. And there won’t be a thing I can do about it. She hates me.

I
DON
’
T
REALLY
remember much about the funeral. Grayson’s parents and siblings took care of everything. Flashes of lilies and roses and photos and blurred faces flicker in my memory, but nothing sticks. It’s all a haze. My mind must be trying to protect me.

Everyone tells you that a funeral will help give you closure.
You’ll feel more at peace once it’s over, and you can begin the healing process
, they say. It’s been over two months since the funeral, and I want to tell everyone they can shove their closure down their throats. The sadness never ends. I fear it will burrow into every nook of my heart and fester there forever.

The problem is that I yearn for anger. Being angry at least brings out bearable feelings inside of me. Feelings I can fight and let out. Scream into a pillow, and I’ll feel some relief. Now, though, all I feel is sad—deep, dark sadness. The type of sadness that wakes me up at four in the morning and crushes my chest as if Goliath is standing on my heart, squeezing out tears I didn’t think I could possibly have left.

I want it to end. I want some relief. I want to know that someday I’ll be okay.

***

I’m preparing for the look I know my mom will give me when I walk into the kitchen the following week. She’s been bringing me food and setting it on my nightstand throughout the day, hoping I’ll eat a little bit of it. Eventually it crusts over and is thrown away. It’s been too hard to find an appetite.

When I amble through the walkway she stands up swiftly from the kitchen table, and I’m pretty sure I hear her gasp.

“Morning,” I murmur.

“Hi, baby, can I get you something? You want me to make you some breakfast?” She moves toward the cupboards to take out pancake mix. I made pancakes for breakfast on Grayson’s last morning.

“Cereal is fine.”

She reluctantly nods and watches my every move as I make my way around the kitchen to pour myself a bowl of cereal and eat. I feel like the star exhibit at a freak show. Her eyes follow me as I bring each spoonful to my lips, as if she’s not sure I’ll actually eat it.
Maybe she’ll pour it down her throat and throw it back up.
I swear those are her thoughts.

When I finish eating and put my bowl in the dishwasher she obviously can’t take it any longer. She wraps her arms around me in a tight hug. I’m having a hard time breathing because she won’t let go.

“Mama,” I prompt.

She pulls back and holds my shoulders. “You want me to run you a nice bubble bath? It might help relax you a little bit.”

A bath actually sounds amazing so I take her up on the offer, and you would think I told her she won an Academy Award. She smiles wide and her eyes beam.

“Do you want some company?” she asks as the tub fills and she puts in the bubble bath. The white foam begins to grow.

Would I like you to stare at me as I sit naked with only a layer of bubbles to conceal me?
“I’ll be okay. Thanks, Mama,” I say instead.

She makes a face as if I’ve hurt her feelings, but she doesn’t dispute it. “Okay.”

Once the tub is filled to the rim, she slowly backs out of the bathroom and finally allows me some privacy. With the scent of the lavender aromatherapy and the warmth of the water, my body relaxes against the porcelain, and I shut my eyes.

“I never realized how invested people get in their dogs.” We curl up on Grayson’s gray couch, his arm draped along the back. His cozy studio apartment is definitely meant for one person. An accordion divider separates us from his double bed with the side of the couch lining the wood floor of the kitchen.

“Are you kidding? Haven’t you ever seen
Best in Show
? These people are nuts.” He chuckles. “These people mean business. Their dogs are their lives. They don’t mess around.”

“That Great Dane is pretty glorious, though,” I say. “You have to give the owner props.” The Great Dane stands impressively still as they examine him, invading his personal space.

“Imagine what he’s thinking. ‘Hey, get your hands out of there!’”

I laugh. “What are they even examining? He must feel so violated.”

Grayson’s hand gently squeezes my shoulder. His fingertips graze the bare skin beneath my sleeve. I feel his eyes on me before he speaks. “You know you’re beautiful when you laugh. I wish I could make you laugh more often.”

I tilt my head up to look at him. “What are you talking about? You make me laugh all the time.”

He narrows his intense hazel eyes. “I’ve made you smile. You rarely laugh.”

It’s been hard to find things to laugh about over the last several months, but Grayson somehow discovered that switch. I don’t know how, but a flicker of hope makes me believe that maybe, just maybe, he could fix me.

His penetrating gaze drifts to my mouth, lingering for a few moments before lifting back to my eyes.
He’s going to kiss me, isn’t he?
I’ve only kissed one other person in my life—a person who I kissed for two years. What if I’m not any good at kissing anyone else? What if my lips were only meant for him? What if Grayson doesn’t like kissing me?

He lowers his head, leaning in, asking without words if it’s okay. My eyes lift to his and I nod once, subtly. His lips brush softly against mine, touching, learning how we fit together. When he feels more confident I’m not going to pull away, he presses more firmly, and this kiss brings warmth and peace and relief. We’re not perfect at it, but it doesn’t matter. His lips lock around mine. Grayson might be the key to putting me back together.

A knock on the bathroom door brings me back. The water is suddenly cold, and the bubbles have faded away. My fingers feel like they’ve shrunk when I lift them out of the water. They’ve been in the water for so long I wonder if they will stay permanently pruney.

“Sawyer? You okay in there? It’s been a few hours.” I hear the conflict in my mom’s voice. She doesn’t want to bother me, but she’s too concerned to leave me alone for long.

“I’m alive.”
If that’s what you were evasively questioning.
“I’m getting out.”

“I made some sandwiches if you want one.”

I sigh. The thought of food makes me nauseous. “Okay. I’ll be there in a minute.”

I can still feel his arms around me. I know how his lips would form to mine and how we would fit together. His fingers would grip my waist and brush my sides. I would almost feel unbroken in his arms. If I stay in the tub any longer I’ll slip under and drown myself, so I burst out of the water to sever the memory.

***

It takes several weeks, but I finally let Mom push me out the door to grab a few things she says we need. She thinks I could use the fresh air. I don’t doubt she’s right, but it doesn’t change the fact that I don’t want to get out. I tell her she needs to mind her own dang business, but it’s a losing battle, because here I am at the local grocery, putting milk in my basket alongside the bread and eggs.

Valerie rings up the few items Mom asked for, and I scan the little candy section behind me. I’m pretty sure I deserve a little something for getting out of the house. I pause on the Reese’s Pieces and contemplate it, but the knot forms in my stomach when I go to reach for them. I can never bring myself to actually buy them anymore, so I settle for an almond Snickers instead.

I know Valerie’s name because her nametag says it, but I do recognize her. We used to adjust her sprinklers so when she turned them on they would douse her instead of her lawn. She didn’t find it nearly as hilarious as we did.

When my mind shifts to the
we
in the situation, the unintentional smirk on my lips falls. I haven’t thought about him in weeks. I wish I could say years, but he isn’t the kind of person one can easily forget, as much as I desperately want to—have tried to. And being back in this town floods my mind with too many memories of him.

Her expression turns slightly confused. My smirk probably looks more like a grimace than a smile. I haven’t smiled in weeks. It’s hard to remember what a real smile feels like.

“You okay, dear?”

I nod automatically. “Yeah, thanks.”

I grab my bags and walk outside. Mom is right about one thing. The fresh air does feel much better than the stagnant air in my room. People nod and wave kindly when I pass them. I may acknowledge them, but my mind is too focused on getting back home to curl up in bed and sleep for a few more hours.

Some people stare and whisper to each other. As much as I absolutely hate it, I can’t really blame them. I’ve been MIA for five years, and now I’m back because my husband—I stop myself from thinking it—and I have nowhere else to go. That’s prime small town gossip.

Nothing changes in Willowhaven. I thought maybe five years would alter at least a little bit, but I was wrong. Mr. Rochester still owns the local grocery—been running it for the last forty years. I worked there for about a year during my junior year and vowed never to work at a grocery store ever again. Ms. Pearl has the only floral shop in town and Moment in Thyme seems to be as hopping as ever. Henry Adler probably still works at Art’s hardware. He’s been working there since our sophomore year.

I don’t know what prompts me to look across the street, through the row of trees, as I walk. Maybe it’s to avoid the eye contact of every person walking toward me, but as soon as I do, I regret it. My eyes have to be deceiving me. When my heart recognizes him it stops.

He waves behind him as he walks out of the hardware store, carrying a brown bag, and then squints at the sun. It can’t be him. He’s not supposed to be here, but yet, there he is. Six years older, but every bit the boy I fell in love with in high school. Could I actually call him a boy? He doesn’t look much like a boy anymore. Thick stubble lines a much more prominent jawline. He even looks taller.

What is he doing here?
I agreed to come back because I knew there was no way he’d ever show his face again. He promised me that. Through our screaming and tears, he told me there was no way in Hades he’d ever consider staying in this town with me.

I’m standing on one side of the street as if the sidewalk has formed around my feet, cementing them in place. I can’t move until his eyes drift in my direction. When he sees me, I can’t decipher what’s going on in his head. On days when we used to lay underneath the willows and talk for hours, I learned what every expression meant. I had years to memorize them, but now he’s a stranger.

His features freeze in disbelief. It’s as if he can’t believe
I’m
here, as if I’m the one who left without a trace. I want to scream at him and ask him why he’s looking at me like that. He doesn’t have the right to feel incredulous.

He takes a step toward me and I bolt. This can’t be happening. I can’t handle any more bombs right now. And Dean Preston is a bomb with the power to decimate my entire world.

What’s left of it, anyway.

“T
INA
’
S
BEEN
GOING
on and on about that new restaurant in the city.” Henry swipes my tools at the check out. I smile and nod as if I’m interested in what he’s saying.