Chapter 40
Mitch pulled Jeanie into his arms, tucking her against him and inhaling her familiar scent. She was so cold. He kissed the back of her neck, wrapping his arms around her to warm her up, only to realize something was wrong. Jeanie wasn’t moving. Icy panic seeped through him. She wasn’t breathing.
A strangled cry escaped his throat, and he bolted upright in bed, waking himself from the nightmare. He hunched there, clutching the blanket to his chest, trying to breathe, chest heaving, pulse rapid, sweat trickling down his back, heart breaking all over again.
It was just a dream, he repeated to himself.
A terrible, gut-wrenching, awful dream. He hated it with a passion. One brief moment of joy, Jeanie in his arms, then he was plunged back into the dark abyss of grief he’d been struggling to escape from.
Of course that nightmare would return now. He’d had a couple of good days. He’d been writing. He’d been getting back into the groove of things. Harper had been helping. He’d thought he’d be all right to sleep in the bed again.
So much for that.
It was like his subconscious thought any kind of happiness, even the kind that wasn’t really happiness but more of a placid existence, was wrong. Like anything a few steps up from mind-numbing grief was some kind of betrayal. Like he’d forgotten he was supposed to be miserable without his wife.
As if that was possible. He could never forget her. He’d also never know true happiness ever again. There was something inside him that wouldn’t allow him to get too close to normal, wouldn’t let him find peace again.
He lay back down and glowered at the ceiling, angry at everything. It was still dark outside, but he knew there’d be no return to sleep.
This mood didn’t make him feel like writing, either. Today would be one of those days like the ones he’d been having since her passing. No words would be good enough, if they even came. He’d stare at the screen, mired in his grief, wracked with guilt about Kyle, guilt for not writing, and accomplishing nothing.
To make matters worse, he’d signed the new contract and emailed Lucinda that things were back on track.
What an idiot he was. Two good days and he thought that was how things were going to go from now on?
He scrubbed a hand over his face, his anger turning inward. Building once again over the fact that Jeanie had been taken from him. That life was so unfair.
He flipped the covers back, pulled on a pair of pajama pants over his boxers and went to the kitchen. Lack of sleep made his stomach sour. Ignoring that, he made a pot of coffee, finding some comfort in the ritual of it. As it brewed, he leaned against the counter and hung his head. What in blazes was he going to do? He couldn’t live like this.
He wasn’t living like this. He was barely existing.
Leaving the coffee to do its thing, he walked to the windows and looked out. The horizon was faintly lighter than the rest of the sky. He yawned, but there was no going back to bed. He’d sleep on the couch tonight, like he’d been doing.
He walked into his office and turned on his computer. He checked email while he waited on coffee. Mostly junk, but there was one from Harper, thanking him for sending the signed NDA back and letting him know she’d see him at six this evening.
Wasn’t much point in that now. He wouldn’t have anything to discuss with her tonight. He already knew that. Wasn’t him being pessimistic, it was just the reality of his situation. He started to compose a response when he heard the coffee maker sputter out the last few drops.
The email could wait. Coffee was more important.
He got up and filled a mug, then brought it back to the office. He went to stand by the windows again, checking the horizon as he took a few tentative sips of the scalding liquid. He was frustrated beyond words. How was he supposed to write like this?
Instead of returning to his desk, he went to the couch and sat, putting his cup on the side table. He leaned back and closed his eyes, trying to force his mind to return to its formerly creative state.
Fat lot of good that did.
He lay down on the couch, attempting to ignore the fresh grief the dream had caused. Focusing on that, as easy and tempting as it was, produced nothing good. He might be in mourning, but he at least understood that much.
The sound of puttering opened his eyes. It was light outside. He’d fallen asleep on the couch. No dreams, though, so that was good.
Still, he felt like hot garbage.
Joyce would find him soon. He sighed. There was no avoiding her. He got up, retrieved his cold, half-cup of coffee and went into the kitchen.
She was unloading the dishwasher. “Morning. How are you?”
He grunted, dumped the coffee and refilled his cup with fresh from the pot.
Her brows rose as she continued her work. “That good, eh?
“I didn’t sleep,” he muttered. He started back to his office.
“Breakfast?
“No.”
“I could do an egg or two, any way you like them.”
“No.”
“Just some toast and jam then?”
“Nothing.” He frowned and went into his office. The browser remained open on Harper’s email. He hit the Reply button and stared at the blank space awaiting his words.
He should just tell her she didn’t need to come today, but seeing her would mean getting a break from the way he was feeling. It would be a little humiliating to tell her he hadn’t written anything, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t discuss the book.
Did he really want to, though? He shook his head at the screen. Talking about the book would just highlight how little he’d done. How his two days of writing would probably be all he had to show for the month.
He started typing.
No need to meet today as I—
Joyce came in with a small plate. On it was a scone that had been split, toasted, buttered, and spread with the jam he liked. “You have to eat something.”
He actually didn’t, but for once, he was in no mood to argue. He went back to the email.
“Speaking of eating, will Harper be here for dinner? I was thinking about doing stuffed peppers. Would that be all right?”
He cut his eyes at her. “Harper’s not coming over today. Make whatever you want for dinner.”
“Why isn’t she coming over?”
He took a breath and tried not growl at her. Joyce didn’t deserve it and she had already borne the brunt of his frustrations too many times. “Because I can’t write today.”
“You’re in your office at your computer. You look like you’re going to write. You wrote yesterday and the day before—”
“Joyce. Please.” He was on the verge of cracking. He kept his eyes on the computer, but he could still see her in his peripheral vision. Watching him. Evaluating his mental state. Pitying him.
Her eyes narrowed, filling with compassion and understanding a moment later. “Oh,” she said softly, with anguish in her voice. “You had the dream again, didn’t you?”
He ground his teeth together and looked blindly at the screen. “I just want to be left alone.”
Joyce didn’t budge, although he was sure she’d understood him. “Talking to Harper seems to help you. Maybe she could help with this?”
“Nothing can help with this.” Although Harper was some kind of therapist, wasn’t she? Maybe she could help. But he couldn’t find it within him to care. He sighed and finally looked at her. “I’ll eat the scone, all right?”
She gave a little nod. “If you need anything—”
“I’ll let you know.” He picked up one half of the scone to prove he was going to eat it.
He set it down again when she left, brushing his fingers off on his pajama pants. He glanced at them. He hadn’t gone for a run, hadn’t showered, hadn’t changed.
He needed to do those things. But he couldn’t find the energy or the desire. Not today. He got up from his desk, the email unsent. He closed the office door and lay down on the couch again.
Nothing mattered right now. Jeanie was gone. She always would be gone. Nothing he did was going to change that.
Nothing would ever matter again.