4. Fallon
Chapter four
Fallon
My phone dings with the notification that my Amazon package has just been delivered. The picture of proof where the package is leaned against the red front door is right below the delivery confirmation. It’s the last order I’m waiting for here at this house, the last time I’ll see that front door in my Prime app. Anything I order from this point forward will be delivered to my new house, the navy two-bedroom cottage with a canary yellow front door I’m renting closer to town.
Rhett would’ve hated living in town. He needed his space. He hand-picked this house. Meticulously and methodically, he went through a list of non-negotiables until the eighteenth home tour led us to what was supposed to be our forever home.
For us. For our future kids. Our family.
Blinking away tears, I change my delivery address in the app, then open the package. The brown leatherbound journal with a hot pink tie-strap is a grief gift I bought for myself. Every single dead husband or dead boyfriend (there’s hardly ever a dead-almost-husband option) blog, article, or YouTube video mentions journaling. I hate to say it, but the concept makes me want to stab the lined paper with a red-ink pen and then watch it bleed. I’ve never been a journaler, nor do I want to relive these feelings in the future. Future Me would have to force my eyelids open to read my past sentiments.
I bought it anyway because, two days ago, it seemed like the right thing to do. I’d heal quickly if I journaled, because journaling fostered healing in Jenny the Homemaking Hippy and Widow Winnie with an Attitude. I clicked the Buy It Now button directly from Widow Winnie’s link, so she got her commission, and I got the promise of curated coping.
If I knew anything about Rhett, I'm positive he wouldn’t want this for me. He’d be feverish at how I spent the last six months. Livid with himself for leaving me behind. He was my protector, my champion. He’d be tormented knowing I’m in this big house, all alone.
Late at night, I cry. I want to stay at home every chance I get. I’m not living life to the fullest or even half full, because Rhett can’t live at all. I want nothing more than to hide and suffer in sorrow. Like a dog shredding a new stuffed animal, my mind is puffs of polyester floating in the wind.
Looking back, though, I’m proud of how far I’ve come. I take the trash out and shop for groceries. I filed my own taxes and checked the oil in my car. All the stuff Rhett normally did for me. For us.
We’d been together for a little over four years, living together for two of them, and engaged for eight months. Just when we found our groove, our life imploded. We and us are now me and I. Now, it’s up to me to undo everything we figured out together and do it on my own instead. It’s rewarding and exhausting, all in the same breath.
Most of my old college friends are getting married and having babies. That was our five-year plan… but now it’s just me. A twenty-seven-year-old starting fresh. I no longer have a plan and probably never will again, not with how much I’ve learned about destiny. I know I’ll have to date again in the future, but the thought of comparing everyone to Rhett doesn’t feel fair to anyone. The feeling of cheating on a dead man is the latest hurdle for my brain.
I place the distressed journal directly into a moving box. My brother and one of his friends were supposed to be here ten minutes ago to help load the larger furniture and heavy boxes. My new house is only three miles from here, but I can’t stay here any longer. I need to move forward.
Light knocks on the door in rapid succession have me standing to act like I’ve been working hard instead of crying. I yell for my brother to come in. Another knock, so I yell again. Another knock, and I huff. What the fuck, Corbin. Mumbling a string of expletives, I tromp toward the front door, irritable and emotional.