4. Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Faith
I 've combed through every single thing in my closet, and I still can't find anything to wear. I never do. It's rare that I find myself outside of my nursing scrubs on a Saturday night, leaving me with very few choices to pick from before I'm dragged to a holiday party, that I'm still trying to decide I want to go to.
"I don't have anything to wear," I say when I call my work bestie, Kate, whose party I'm being dragged to.
"Come on, you don't have one dress in that closet?" she says while I hear clunky kitchen noises in the background.
"I have a black dress, but it's not very festive."
"Oh, a little black dress is perfect!"
"Kate, there's nothing little about me," I sigh, reading the size 18 tag. "Or the dress."
I toss the phone on speaker and start rummaging again. First, I try on a flowy floral number that looks great on the hanger but makes me feel like I'm wearing a floral tent. The empire waist hits right under my boobs and flares out in all the wrong places; I look like a walking garden party.
"Sounds like you're not feeling the floral one?" Kate chimes in from the phone.
In my best British accent, I say, "Dear, this is dreadful even for the hanger to hold." No, it's out. I toss it to the ground, making a mental note to donate that thing.
Next up is a sequined top I thought would be fun—fun, indeed—if fun means leaving a trail of glitter everywhere. I shimmy into it, and it fits like a sausage casing, emphasizing every curve and bulge. The sequins scratch at my skin and underarm, and I can't help but feel like a plus-size disco ball.
"This sequin top is a disaster. I look like a shiny burrito," I announce, rolling my eyes at my reflection. Tossing that into the corner of no-go.
"Okay, maybe no sequins," Kate laughs, clanging pots echoing in the background.
Desperation leads me to a pair of white jeans I haven't worn in years. I squeeze into them, hopping around my room like a deranged kangaroo. When I finally get them on, they're so tight I can barely breathe. I sit down to test them, and they immediately start cutting off my circulation.
"Why do women wear jeans anyway," I holler out in a scratchy, irritated voice. And furthermore, why are these items in my damn closet. So outdated. "Nope, these jeans are a death trap. I'm going to pass out before I even leave the house," I say, peeling them off with incredible difficulty.
"Sounds like you're making progress," Kate teases.
"Sure, if progress means rediscovering why I don't wear half the things in my closet," I retort, throwing the jeans onto the ever-growing rejection pile.
Finally, I pull out a dark green dress that almost looks black, depending on how you look at it. I haven't worn this beaut in ages. I chuckle, hearing Kate opening a bottle of wine.
"Okay, last one. Green dress with a broken zipper. What do you think?" I ask, holding the phone closer so Kate can hear my exasperation.
"Broken zipper? It might be a bit drafty. I didn't think you were the easy type, not making the guys work for it, eh?" she jokes.
"I swear, Kate, I'm about to show up in my scrubs. At least they're comfortable."
"Don't you dare! You can't let a closet crisis win," Kate encourages, her tone softening.
With a resigned sigh, I grab the black dress again. I slip it on, and while it's not the most festive option, it fits comfortably and looks decent.
"Alright, I'm going with the black dress. I feel more fluffy in this. It's not perfect, but it'll do."
"Hey, you know as well as I do that men like their women with meat on their bones," she says. "If it's the dress I remember, you're going to have the guys drooling all over you by the night's end."
"I wouldn't go that far," I say as I lay the dress across the bed.
"It's the only thing that doesn't make me look like a circus tent or a bedazzled blimp," I mutter, but a smile tugs at my lips.
"Are you sure I shouldn't just go with some jeans and a nice blouse or something?"
I'm positive. Black dress, comfy heels, and a big old smile."
"Alright, if you say so."
"Remember the party starts at seven, okay?"
"I'll be there."
Once we hang up, I realize that if I'm going with the dress, I need to do something about my red locks that currently look like the state of a troll doll's hair. I rack my brush through my hair while my curling iron warms up. Loose curls would be fine, and a bit more bronzer would give the illusion that I occasionally go in the sun, which would complete the look. But once I've done all I can, I still don't feel ready for a night out.
"Well, this is as good as it's going to get," I say to the mirror while I spray my curls.
You definitely need a red lip, Chelsea's voice echoes in my head. No matter what the occasion was, Chelsea always insisted on a bold lip, usually a dark red one, and I always obliged.
And tonight is no different.
can appreciate Kate's efforts to keep me distracted, but my thoughts can't help but wander to Chelsea this time of year. Christmas was always her favorite holiday; if she could live in a winter climate all year, she would. Maybe that's why I hate the cold so much. It's a sharp, bitter reminder that another year has passed without someone that I have to remember longer than I've known her.
People say all the time that grieving will get easier. "Just give it time," they say. But here I am, four years later, and the pain of losing her is still as raw and fresh as the day she died in front of me. After four years without her, I still catch myself reaching for my phone to call her about something good that happened at work or when something reminded me of her. It's such an automatic reaction, my thumb hovering over her name in my contacts. But then reality crashes down, reminding me there won't be anyone to pick up on the end of the line. I've always wondered if the dead truly visit us so she knows when I'm thinking of her, and I want to share something that I think she would get a kick out of. It's a comforting thought, at the very least.
But she's not the only person that comes to mind this time of year. I can't help but think about how Derek is doing. I'll hear little things here and there from mutual friends but not much else. The last I heard, he quit his bouncer job and got a job at a protection agency working private security for some politician or something.
With Derek's memory comes the promise to Chelsea that I've struggled to follow through on after all these years. It's damn near impossible to take care of someone when they don't want anything to do with you. I've tried, but every time I attempt to talk to him, whether it was after Chelsea's funeral or when we'd occasionally catch each other out in public, he'd give me that same icy glare that cuts through me like a knife every time. It's always more than enough to keep my distance. I'm not sure what gets to me more. Derek blaming me for Chelsea's death, or me not following through on a dead friend's promise.
I'm hoping a bit of eggnog will help numb the guilt.