3. Missing Princess Bubblegum & The Will To Live #2
The next morning, I found him passed out on the living room couch, Hank and Dublin—who we didn’t know—sitting in the corner of the room.
Hank told us how he’d dreamt of his late wife, urging him out of the house, and hours later came across Carter at a bar, a drunk, incoherent mess, and stopped him from driving home, the very action that had stolen our dad in the first place.
In stopping us from losing another piece of our family, Hank became part of it.
“Too long,” is the whisper that finally tumbles from my lips.
“But then every day without them is too long, isn’t it?”
My chest squeezes as I imagine my mom right now.
I know what she’s doing: the same thing she does every year on this day.
Wearing Dad’s favorite sweater because the smell of his cologne still clings to it, clutching the teddy bear he won her at the fair on their first date.
Crying and alone, until her heart allows her to open a space big enough to let us back in.
She’ll laugh and smile later today when we watch old home movies and tell stories, but she needs her space to grieve first.
“Living without your soul mate is something no one should ever have to do,” Hank murmurs.
He pats my hand. “I know there’s something extra special waiting for you, Jennie.
A love above all the rest. That’s what a soul mate is.
Someone with smooth edges to soften our sharp ones.
Someone who fits us so perfectly, vibrates on the same frequency, makes all our best parts shine.
And together? Together, everything is exactly the way it’s meant to be. ”
I force an eye roll, laughing off his promise. “I’m in no rush. I like being independent.”
“You can be independent and still share a life with someone. Your brother didn’t think he wanted to share his life, and now look at him. He has a wife with a beautiful soul, a baby on the way, and the man couldn’t be happier.”
“I know what you’re doing, old man, but I don’t need a boyfriend to make me happy.”
“I don’t think you do either. You make yourself happy all on your own.
Now, do I think finding that person who makes all the dark spots a little bit brighter when they help you hold them might open you up to a side of this world you haven’t seen?
” He shrugs. “Maybe.” A broad grin. “Do I think you’re a lot more like your brother than you let on to be, and you’re scared to let someone in because love can hurt? Absolutely.”
“Get outta here. I’m not scared.”
I am terrified .
It’s not that I don’t crave the intimacy, the person who’s always in your corner, who sees you with all your walls down and likes you even then.
God, how I wouldn’t love to find someone who saw everything, accepted it all.
Someone all my own to share the hard things with.
Maybe then all those hard things would feel manageable.
Thing is, though, when your older brother is the captain of an NHL team, when everyone wants a slice of him, it’s impossible to separate the real from the fake.
You wind up trudging too deep, left all on your own when you find you were merely a stepping stone, that nothing was ever real.
And the ones you thought cared? When they blow your world up, they don’t even glance back at the rubble and chaos left by the explosion.
It’s safer to have a tight-knit circle, a few people you can trust wholeheartedly, than to recklessly let in anyone who asks, even if it is a little lonely sometimes.
Besides, who needs a boyfriend when you’ve got a drawer full of battery-powered ones? Men don’t vibrate, but dildos do.
* * *
When I make it back to the condo after lunch, I’m exhausted. I’ve fielded messages from Carter, Olivia, Cara, and Simon all morning, constantly checking up on me. It’s nice, but a lot.
I lock the door behind me. the sound of the dead bolt sliding into place echoing through my apartment before filling it with silence.
Silence makes my skin crawl. It leaves too much room for questions, for wandering thoughts, overthinking, and second-guessing.
My eyes catch that photo album, and I let it pull me forward until all I can see is his smiling face, until all that’s flowing through me is the desperate urge to feel the warmth of his love instead of this sudden overwhelming lack of strength, of control.
I cover the photo and close my eyes as my chest heaves, and for some reason, Garrett’s face floats through my mind.
I see him standing there with coffee and hot chocolate, the smile he wore just for me, a real smile that made me feel warm.
And now I feel cold again, alone, and I’m so fucking tired of being alone in my hardest moments.
Slowly, I spread my fingers, uncovering the picture a little at a time. That pink bunny stares up at me, the one clutched to my chest, and I know what I need. I know how to find some warmth again, to bring a little piece of home to me here.
With scissors, I slice through endless pieces of tape, box after box, ripping open the flaps, strewing the contents on the floor as I search for Princess Bubblegum, a piece of my dad that I can hold on to.
The longer I look, the more my hands shake.
The scissors break, and my chin trembles.
Box after box yields the same heartbreaking result: no bunny.
I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head, willing away the weakness that comes in the form I hate most.
I rarely lose control. Of my body, my emotions. I avoid situations that bring pain or uncertainties. I should’ve stayed home; home where I’m surrounded by the memories, home with my mom. Instead, I’m here, alone.
I dump out the box before me, the one labeled bedroom , and when nothing pink falls out, I sink to my knees and let the tears come.