Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
The house feels different at night now. Every creak, every shadow holds a memory of him. I lie awake in our bed—my bed now—staring at the ceiling fan as it spins lazy circles above me. The space beside me feels infinite.
It’s been three days since he left. Three days of existing in this strange limbo where everything looks the same but feels completely different. His toothbrush is still in the bathroom. His favorite coffee mug still sits in the cabinet. Little pieces of him scattered everywhere, like landmines waiting to explode my heart all over again.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, making me jump. It’s Lilly.
Lilly
Just checking in. You okay?
I stare at the message, unsure how to respond. Am I okay? I don’t even know what okay means anymore.
Me
Can’t sleep.
Lilly
Want company? I can be there in 15.
It’s nearly midnight, and I know she has work tomorrow. But the thought of spending another night alone in this too-quiet house makes my chest tight.
Me
No it’s okay.
Lilly:
Already putting my shoes on.
Fifteen minutes later, she’s at my door in pajama pants and an oversized sweater, holding a grocery bag. “I brought ice cream,” she announces, sweeping past me into the kitchen. “And those chocolate cookies you like from that bakery near my house.”
“Lil, you didn’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I did.” She opens cabinets, pulling out bowls with the familiarity of someone who’s spent countless hours in this kitchen. “Because that’s what best friends do. They show up with sugar and carbs when their person is hurting.”
I watch as she scoops generous portions of mint chocolate chip ice cream into bowls, adding cookies to the side. “Come on,” she says, handing me a bowl. “Let’s go sit.”
We settle on the couch, and I pull the throw blanket over both our laps.
“Want to talk about it?” she asks softly, tucking her feet under her.
I take a bite of ice cream, letting the cold numb my tongue. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“Start anywhere. Start with right now.”
I stare into my bowl, watching the ice cream slowly melt. “Right now… right now, I keep thinking about stupid things. Like how I still make enough coffee for two people every morning. Or how I reach for his hand when I’m watching TV. Or how I…” My voice cracks. “How I still whisper ‘good night’ to his side of the bed, even though I know he’s not there.”
Lilly sets her bowl down and pulls me into a hug. The dam breaks, and suddenly I’m sobbing into her shoulder, ice cream forgotten on the coffee table.
“I don’t know who I am without him, Lil,” I choke out between sobs. “We’ve been together since high school. He’s all I know.”
“That’s not true,” she says firmly, pulling back to look at me. “You’re Alexis Kline. You’re an artist. You’re my best friend. You’re the person who helped me through my breakup with Dave, remember? You’re the one who organized that fundraiser for the animal shelter last year. You’re so many things that have nothing to do with being Jeremy’s wife.”
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “Then why do I feel so lost?”
“Because change is scary. Because endings hurt. Because you’re human.” She squeezes my hand. “But you’re not alone, okay? I’m right here.”
We sit in silence for a while, the ice cream melting forgotten. Outside, a car passes by, its headlights sweeping across the living room walls. I remember how Jeremy and I used to make shadow puppets in those lights, laughing like kids.
“He left his shirts,”
“What?”
“In the closet. He packed some clothes, but he left all his work shirts. The orange ones.” I laugh, but it comes out more like a sob. “I keep staring at them every time I open the closet, wondering if he’ll come back for them or if I’m supposed to pack them up or…”
“Oh, honey.” She pulls me close again. “You don’t have to figure that out right now. You don’t have to figure anything out right now.”
But I do. I have to figure out how to sleep alone, how to cook for one, how to exist in this house full of memories without drowning in them. I have to figure out who I am when I’m not part of “Jeremy and Alexis.”
“You know what you need?” she says, sitting up straight. “Your art room. When’s the last time you really painted?”
I think back. “Before… everything. I tried sketching that fruit bowl the other day, but…”
“Then that’s what we’re going to do. Right now.”
I blink at her. “It’s almost one in the morning.”
“So? Van Gogh did some of his best work at night.” She’s already standing, pulling me up with her. “Come on. You need to get these feelings out somehow, and ice cream can only do so much.”
She practically drags me to my art room, flipping on lights as we go. The room looks exactly as I left it days ago–the fruit bowl sketch abandoned on the desk, brushes soaking in murky water, canvas covered in half-formed ideas.
“Clean canvas,” she demands, already rummaging through my supplies. “Fresh start.”
I want to protest that I’m too tired, too sad, too everything to paint right now. But then she hands me a brush, and something shifts inside me. The weight in my chest doesn’t disappear, but it changes, becomes something I might work with.
“I’ll stay right here,” she says, settling into the old armchair in the corner. “Paint whatever you need to paint. I brought snacks, remember?”
The canvas stares at me, blank and full of possibility. I dip my brush in paint–deep blue, the color of midnight and secrets and change–and begin.
Hours pass. Lilly dozes in the chair, occasionally waking to make encouraging noises or offer commentary. The sky outside gradually lightens from black to grey to pink. And I paint.
I paint the darkness and the light, the endings and the beginnings. I paint my fear and my hope, my grief and my anger. I paint until my arms ache and my eyes burn, until the canvas is a riot of colors and emotions I didn’t even know I was holding inside.
When I finally step back, the sun is fully up, casting golden light through the windows. Lilly stirs in her chair, stretching.
“Oh,” she breathes, looking at the canvas. “Lex…”
I see my pain laid bare in broad strokes and bold colors. But there’s something else there too, something I didn’t expect to find. In the chaos of dark blues and angry reds, there are spots of light breaking through–small but persistent, like stars in a storm.
“I think,” I say slowly, “I need to paint more.”
She smiles, reaching for my hand. “Then that’s what we’ll do. Whenever you need to, day or night, just call me. I’ll be here with snacks and moral support.”
I squeeze her hand, grateful beyond words for this friend who shows up at midnight with ice cream and doesn’t leave until sunrise. Maybe she’s right–maybe I am more than just Jeremy’s wife. Maybe it’s time to find out who else I can be.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
She bumps her shoulder against mine. “Always. Now, how do you feel about breakfast? I make a mean hangover omelet, and emotional hangovers totally count.”
For the first time in days, I feel something like a smile tugging at my lips. It’s small and fragile, but it’s there. Like those spots of light in my painting, breaking through the darkness, promising that maybe, just maybe, there’s something waiting on the other side of all this pain.