Chapter 16
Now
Bea
Grief is like running, I’ve decided.
When Merritt went into remission the first time, she got this wild urge to train for a marathon.
I negotiated it down to a half, but agreed to train with her.
During that training, I got really into every aspect of it: used a heart monitor and a recovery tracker, bought specialized shoes, and read a ton of literature on it.
One thing I came across that I found particularly apt was the rule of thirds.
It said that one-third of the time, running would feel awful.
Another third, it would feel great. You’d get a runner’s high, the happiness that comes with succeeding, knowing you are making progress.
The other third of the time? It would just feel okay.
It’d be tolerable. It wouldn’t feel good or bad, but you’d be doing the work.
The last week has been an okay third. My workdays stayed busy and my evenings slipped away quietly.
When we were home at the same time, Silas and I continued orbiting each other comfortably.
Perhaps a little too comfortably at times.
I caught myself flirting with him, standing too close to him while we did the dishes.
Smiling and holding eye contact a little too long over meals on the couch or at the island.
I’d snap myself out of it whenever I realized.
Overall, though, our schedules remained too busy for there to be too much downtime to navigate together, and I think that might be a good thing while I’m still trying to get a handle on this crush. The exposure therapy thing has clearly backfired.
I didn’t make any more sunrise stops, and haven’t made any progress on the list, but I also haven’t shut down thoughts of Merritt or shied away from bringing her up in conversation.
I still haven’t spoken to my mom, and I’m .
. . I’m okay with it. Other than some expected fatigue and soreness, I still haven’t had any adverse side effects from meds thus far, and I had my last shot of estradiol two days ago.
The number in my account continues to grow at an accelerated pace, and with it my readiness.
I feel ready. Anxious as hell to get to the next step, but ready.
All in all, I’m doing the work.
I decided to send off the final Sunday in May with an actual run, and at one mile in, it is currently trending in that okay column, too. Not terrible, but certainly not great.
It’s another strangely warm day for Spunes, with very little breeze and sunshine dappling the gloom.
I slow to a walk when I get to a long set of cement stairs that lead down onto Main Street.
Through the tops of scrubby trees, I can see downtown, the collection of businesses in the brick buildings that line the street, and Starhopper at the peak of it.
An observatory tower hugs the side of the brewery, with bistro lights strung out over the patio bordering an expansive lawn area that spreads across the top of a cliff.
Today, that lawn area is dotted in vendor stands for the weekly farmers market, and it’s packed with townies and tourists alike. Curiosity wins out over finishing my run, and I start to make my way down the steps.
I walk past booths overflowing with glossy, ripe cherries, piles of asparagus, peppers, corn, and every kind of summer berry.
Baskets of colorful saltwater taffy and ropes of other homemade candies at another stand.
There’s a girl manning a custom jewelry booth with trays brimming with charms. A man carving names and address numbers into custom wood placards.
A few yards away, I spot Fisher’s niece, Indy, at a tiny renovated trailer selling flowers.
Wren’s curly blond head pops out beside her and waves me over.
We exchange greetings, and I cast a look around the lawn. “When did this turn into—all of this?” I ask disbelievingly.
Wren laughs and finishes tying a bundle of fluffy hydrangeas. “I take it you haven’t been to one of these in quite some time?”
“I haven’t, no.” Another thing I’ve been sitting out of recently.
“Indy, babe, you got this for a bit?” Wren asks her. Indy nods, and Wren passes me the bouquet before slipping out of the trailer. “Walk with me?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say, lifting the bouquet. “What do I owe you?”
“On the house,” says Wren.
“The owner won’t mind?”
“Sage? Nope. Especially since I’m here covering for her on my day off.” She chuckles. “Extra especially if I can weasel some info out of you on your new living arrangement.”
I give the flowers a look. “Knew they’d come at a price.”
There’s no real ire in it, though. Wren’s known me my whole life, basically, even if there have always been a couple degrees of separation between us.
She has also been a client of mine for years.
A few months after she and Ellis got divorced, she came in and declared she wanted some change.
Eventually, we determined that she did not, actually, want any change at all.
She wanted what she already had, but brighter.
Refreshed. Guess that applied to more than her hair.
“You don’t have to tell me anything—not really,” Wren says. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
I do some quick introspection while we pass more vendors. Two little girls are picking out charms for friendship bracelets, and my heart gives a squeeze. I pluck two flowers from my bouquet and give one to each.
“I am. Okay, I mean,” I tell Wren. Though what is it about someone asking you if you’re okay that makes you question it? I laugh through a tightening throat. “It’s been surprisingly easy, staying at Silas’s.”
She tosses me a fond look. “Not surprising to me. Not at all. Unless a prank was involved, Silas was always the most fastidious of all of them, and he’s .
. . he’s good at being what he thinks people need.
A friend. Comedic relief. Makes sense that he’d figure out how to be a good roommate, too,” she says.
“What is surprising to me, however, is how tight-lipped he is when it comes to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Sage and I both have prodded him on why you’re staying there and he’s been skirting details like a pro. And that man is someone who prides himself on sharing details.”
I snort. “What’s he said?”
“Well, firstly, that it’s none of our goddamn business, to which he’s right—no matter that that has never once stopped him before in his life.
And secondly, just that you’re saving up for something.
And I meant it, Bea, you don’t have to tell me anything.
It isn’t any of my goddamn business and I’m not actually fishing.
” She sighs, putting a hand on my arm and squaring her shoulders.
“But if you can forgive me being a quintessential overbearing townie for a minute, I just wanted to tell you to be careful, please.”
Defensiveness rises in me like a wave. Silas has gone above and beyond, simply to be a friend to me.
He’s opened his home, he’s been supportive with his words and backed it up with his actions.
The man has administered me as many shots as I’ve given to myself.
I’ve managed to kill two sourdough starters thus far, so yesterday, he showed up at the house with an already active one and said he went and stole it from Fisher, thereby breaking and entering and committing theft on my behalf.
Since our dinners that very first week together, anytime he swings by the grocery store, he’s kind enough to see if I need something.
He leaves me leftovers in the fridge, just because.
I’ve continued making extra helpings of my own meals so I can do the same.
And now I know he’s respected my privacy, too.
I suspect he’s guarded my privacy for about eight years.
“He’s been nothing but a gentleman, Wren,” I say. “I think you should give him a little more credit.”
Her pretty face cracks into a satisfied smile before she wrestles it into something subdued.
Subdued, but smug. “I meant you, actually. I was asking you to be careful with him. But I’m really glad to hear it.”
Oh.
“Silas is softer and stronger than I think he knows,” she goes on. “But he also has no . . .” She circles her hands in the air and grimaces. “He doesn’t, like, protect enough of himself, I think.”
“No sense of self-preservation,” I supply. Emphasis on the self.
“Yes. Exactly.”
“Yeah, I’ve picked up on that.” I don’t try to wipe the grin off my face.
“Anyway,” says Wren. “That’s done, and my sisterly obligations are fulfilled.” She claps her palms together like she’s dusting them off. “Wanna get some cotton candy and do a lap around O’Doyle’s? See how long it takes Martha to yell at us for eating inside the store?”
“Wren. We’re in our thirties.”
“I know, right? I’ve even managed to raise a whole entire adult.” She waits patiently for my reply.
I shrug. “Why not.”
We end up shopping around the market for a little while longer.
I buy a canvas bag with vintage spoons printed all over and fill it with a medley of things.
Homemade Caesar dressing and a bag of naan, tomatoes, and a loaf of pesto focaccia.
Wren and I only make it five minutes inside O’Doyle’s before Martha snaps at us and hustles us back out with our cotton candy.
She thanks me aggrievedly when I pass her a woolly cloud of her own.
It’s not until two hours later, when we’re seated at a table in her bakery and Wren is cheers-ing her lemonade cupcake to mine, that I realize I’ve just enjoyed a friend date of sorts. In my peripheral, I see more than half the vendors packing away their E-Z UPs and tables for the day.
“Today was fun,” I tell her. I hate how tentative it sounds. How hard it is not to let any guilt flare up over it, as if I’m loving Merritt less if I make room in my friendship heart for more.
“Let’s do something again soon?” says Wren. “I have my appointment with you next month—maybe we get some lunch after if it works with your schedule?”