Chapter 12
Although I rouse myself enough to feed the cat in the morning, I have no problem getting back into bed for the entire next day. It’s just impossible to come up with any reason why I want to stay awake. So, I blissfully mold myself again into the mattress and envelop myself in darkness.
When I wake again, it’s to an afternoon sky.
I remember the beautiful view that I should see from the deck, so I literally force myself out of bed and think Dave would be proud of me for thinking of and using the word literally properly.
Because it’s a true push with my sound arm to get myself upright.
I even change into new pajamas. A weird pink cotton set with sushi images that fits over my cast.
Without even looking at him, I leave Whiska food. The hateful cat that I love.
There’s really no reason to be awake, so I get back into bed and half sleep for hours. It’s cozy and comfy here in my haze. So much for pretending to get up for the day.
After I wake and feel pathetic enough, I force myself to leave my cave.
I grab a Smart Water and move out to the deck to catch the sunset and do my best to relax.
But no matter how much I try, my stupid eyes keep pouring out tears, and I do all the mopping up that I can.
I should buy shares of tissues. I almost laugh a bit, because it’s like I’m crying, but I’m also not.
Not making a sound, and I cannot feel a thing. This leaking is not okay.
When the front door unlocking sounds, I shudder. And freeze.
“Hello? Diana?”
Dave’s footsteps echo throughout as he enters and walks about.
“This new bakery in town is just killer. I also had time to shell these lobsters. Buttered rolls because you haven’t had them, right?” His voice is so cute and happy.
I turn and watch him from the deck and see him set canvas bags on the counters, and I feel so guilty thinking that he may rightfully assume that I’m here hoping to rekindle what we had while on vacation.
That would be an obvious assumption. If my world hadn’t imploded, maybe I’d be maybe hoping for that too.
But Puerto Rico seems like a million years ago, and I’m probably too broken as fuck to be anything to anyone.
To share anything of myself that isn’t crazy.
I start to stand.
“Jesus, sit back down.” He’s clearly shocked to find me in such a state.
Oh, hell. I momentarily forgot how deranged I look.
My curly red hair is a frizzy, horrid mess, just barely flopped into a scrunchie on the side of my head, and I’m just a smelly basket case in every way.
Not to mention my cast and sling. Maybe I should have shut the slider, as it could have bought me a moment or more before he found me outside, although I’m not sure that I could’ve positioned myself in a less sad way.
But when Dave steps outside and we lock eyes, I finally think about relief.
Like, maybe I’ll smile again one day. New Friend Dave is actually just what I needed.
But his presence also makes me want to cry.
I know I look insane, and I don’t vaguely resemble the person he met in Puerto Rico.
He sits and throws an arm over my shoulders.
I really hate how adorable he is, especially given how bananas I look. “My sushi pajamas are maybe a bit odd,” I blurt out.
“A bit. But also cute,” he says softly. “And I see you broke your arm.”
“Just my wrist. But it seems I did an exceptionally good job of shattering it. Multiple places. Wanna see?” Whether or not he does, I whip out my phone and show him the X-rays and give a vivid description of the breaks.
His cringe echoes mine when I first saw them.
“I was told it’s a left distal radius fracture and something about an unspecified fracture of the lower end of my left ulna. Whatever the fuck that means.”
“That sounds very painful.”
I nod. “But I’m now complete with metal plates and screws. Yeah, you know that Wonder Woman was my fave, but now the Bionic Woman has to be my new girl. Another cool chick from a show, right? So, this break is pretty killer, right? I really outdid myself.”
“Indeed.” Without even asking, Dave pulls my mess of hair into his hands and deftly fixes my scrunchie before he snuggles me back against him. “And there’s a cat here?”
“There is. Sorry. Litter smell?”
“No, actually.” He smiles. “There’s a stack of cat food cans on the front step.”
“He’s a bitchy feral kitten who hates me. His name is Whiska.”
“Let me guess.” Dave’s voice is gentle as he pulls away ever so slightly to give me a soft smile. “Whiska Hargitay?”
“Of course. Full name? Top Cat Whiska Hargitay.”
“And we pronounce it properly. Whishka, right?”
God, I didn’t want to miss him so much, but being here with Dave, here in his own environment, it feels so right.
Neither of us says a thing for ages, for which I’m grateful, but Dave finally unwraps me and leads me to the kitchen. After he sets me on a barstool, he cooks.
“You said at the resort that you’d never had buttered lobster rolls?
I think it’s time.” While the water boils, he unpacks the rest of what he brought.
“I figured you might need some food to get you by.” And he both laughs and frowns after he opens the fridge and freezer.
“Why is there nothing but gross frozen creamed spinach and au gratin potatoes here?”
I feel myself shrink a bit. “They’re not gross. They’re yummy sides.”
“That’s what you were going to live on?” he asks.
“Maybe. No. Yes. You said something about lobster?” I prompt as I cover my face. “Ready to teach everyone how to make the best of the best?”
“This is stupid, but fine.”
He’s not surprised that I have my phone out at the ready.
“Please?” I shrug. “I just love to record perfection.”
I film it all. How he boils lobsters to ideal tenderness. How he shells, chops, and seasons the meat. Even the care he takes when he gently melts the butter and spreads it across a bun from a local bakery.
I groan as I take a bite. And another. It’s impossible to properly capture his masterpiece. Posting about this takes no time, nearly no edits. But I do think Dave might kill me because he’s going to be swamped.
I’m still truly licking my fingers after Dave has closed down, and I ask about the kids’ books and toys that I found. This guy is too damn cute.
He laughs and tries to wave it off as nothing. “So many families pass through here. Not just during peak season, but really year-round. Winter getaways and whatever. And it kind of got disheartening to see how everyone was on their phone so much.”
He smiles and takes a second. “But a few years back, there was a family that rented a place here every summer. And their son, Billy, was always buried in a book. Like, his parents would order trays of seafood from me, and he would be torn between devouring lobster and reading All Creatures Great and Small. So, I had a friend build a weatherproof cabinet to make a Little Free Library.”
“Because why?” I prompt.
“Because I picked up a copy and got sucked in. It’s a great series.”
Sometimes, staying silent is the best way to get someone to keep talking.
“Apparently, my mom started reading to me from the day she found out she was pregnant. Then forever after. Books are in my blood.
“It’s always so fun, watching how my shelf pulls in families. Encourages them to sit down together and take some time. Vacations are supposed to be relaxing, but they’re often stressful. God, I see parents trying to manage, like, four or five kids. So, I had to start stockpiling.
“Seeing family moments like that? It’s when I tell my assistant to take over, and I snag a really cool book and run out to the tables. Maybe it’s a picture book for the littles, maybe a chapter book for the older ones, maybe a book that’s timeless, one the parents will also dig.”
He’s charming and cute, and he’s for sure stopped short of the full story. Of his story. Something is telling me that there’s more behind all of this.
But that’s okay.
I’m going to marry him, I decide again in my fatigue and my numbness.
Now that I’m stuffed with food and comfort, I quickly begin to fade, yet I have to ask, “Dave, it’s still really cold. Can you help me with the heat?”
“Yeah, it is cold,” he agrees. “And it’s only going to get colder. Sorry, that thermostat needs a tweak. Back in a sec.”
While he’s gone, I read the cat another children’s book from the living room collection and get some welcome tail wags, and then my Top Cat curls back into his soft cube.
After some clanking sounds, the heat kicks on, and then I hear noise from the kitchen as dishes hit the dishwasher.
Dave is taking care of everything.
I start to make my way to the bedroom, venturing to the flannel sheets and mattress that will again suck me in, but I have to grab on to the doorframe to steady myself. Nothing has happened that should shake me. No songs, no words, no thoughts. Yet I’m suddenly unsteady. Begging for air.
There must be a Grief God who is going to smack me down with lessons anytime she chooses. Tonight she wants to hit me, but tomorrow maybe she’ll help me.
I can’t do this. I can’t do this.
My inability to breathe is going to take me out. It’s that simple. This loss is overwhelming. Killing me.
Dave finds me hyperventilating in the hallway and leads me to the bed as I repeat what’s been running through my head. “I can’t do this. I swear to God, I can’t do this.”
Even I don’t know what I mean. That I can’t cry? That I can’t let go of my best friend? That I cannot process how deep this pain cuts? And how I know that the stabbing hurt might fade, but that I’m going to have to live with this incalculable loss for the rest of my life?
I’ve done all the research, all the reading about what’s to come.
The initial loss and grief are going to be bad enough, but then—just when I might think that I’m steady—I’ll be left waiting for unannounced reminders that will slice through my heart forever.
It feels stupid to even think about trying to recover. The odds are against me.
“Will you help me into bed?” Such an embarrassing and sad request maybe, but I truly don’t think I can get there myself.
He must know that I’m struggling with more than my wrist and pissy cat, but he waits me out until I can speak.
But only after he’s got me into bed and fulfilled all of my crazy sleeping needs can I consider that I might actually sleep.
Under the big comforter and huddled down like a hobbit or whatnot, with a fan blowing, a sound machine billowing white noise, an eye mask blacking out any light, a pillow over my head, and a weighted blanket.
These are actually my normal and weirdo bedtime needs, but I’m clinging to them now harder than ever.
When I’m finally decidedly enveloped, he whispers that I can tell him anything.
“I know. But I can’t. It’ll make it real,” I whisper. Hearing his worried tone makes me feel guilty and awful.
“Something else has happened, yes?” Dave pulls up the sheets and fusses with them for a minute. “Whatever it is, it’s already real. It’s already happened.”
He’s right.
So, I push off the mask and pillows and look into the darkness and just say what has to be said. “Patrick is dead. Some weird shit about a blood clot after surgery. But he’s dead.” I roll over a bit.
“Diana.” He sets his hands on my shoulders. “What? He was fine …”
“Yeah, he was fine until he wasn’t. Now he’s all dead.”
I can’t blame him for not saying anything because I’ve made it all awkward as fuck. Dave was supposed to be my vacation fling. Now he’s found me in such a hideous mess, and I’ve forced him into the shitty position of having to offer up some kind of brilliant words of condolence.
Understandably, he says nothing at first, but his delayed response tells me how much he gets me and my pain. “This is an absolute bullshit pickle-truck tragedy of grotesque proportions.”
I smile. Patrick was right to approve of New Friend Dave.
“Can you wrap me up like a burrito?” I ask. “Like, stuff me in the sheets and all? Pretty miraculous that I even got up today, considering you obviously splurged on some kind of wild thread count. This is a forever bed.”
Getting tucked in is highly underrated. I squirm into the folds of thick cotton and embrace it.
Impulsively, I reach out and pull him in, wanting the weight of his body fully against mine.
Dave is strong and solid, and the way he grips me back gives me hope that I might be able to sleep one of these days.
Or nights. He intuitively and thankfully knows this is not a sexual thing.
It’s just that I realize I need him inexplicably, but I do need him.
After he feels my breathing slow, Dave sets me back into my pillow collection and covers my eyes with my mask, and it’s seconds before I’m out. Even without my weighted blanket, the fan, and my other usual needs.
I’m not sure, but maybe I ask him not to leave. But maybe I don’t. It’s all fuzzy and clouded.
Yet, during my foggy foray into sleep, I know he whispers, “Of course I’ll stay.”
So, I guess I asked.
And I finally rest deeply. Healingly.