Chapter 5
As the front door clicks behind me, I’m standing in the hallway.
My keys dangle from my fingertips as I stare at the emptiness before me.
Into the hollow space Rosie should fill.
I hate this fucking house. It feels far too big now.
Too quiet. Too full of memories and dreams of a future that was stolen. From her. From me. From us.
Silence surrounds me. It’s thick, oppressive, and almost too loud to bear.
Every wall, corner, and shadow screams her absence.
Her laugh should be bouncing off the walls, and her—sometimes questionable taste in—music should be wafting from the kitchen.
I should hear her footsteps padding down the hallway and the tightness of her arms flinging around my neck when she races to greet me.
Instead, there’s nothing. Only me… and this emptiness.
My grief for Rosie isn’t waning as months pass. This ache is physical, settling deep in my chest and suffocating me as it sinks its claws firmly into my ribs.
I drop my bag by the door, and it lands with a dull thud that echoes through the otherwise-silent house.
As I kick off my boots, one clatters against the wall and the other skids across the hardwood floor.
When I stagger to the kitchen, I find that damn coffee mug still sitting in the middle of the kitchen island.
I’ve tried, but even after six months, I can’t bring myself to put it in the cupboard.
Stowing it would be like admitting she was actually gone.
With it in my hands, I miss the warmth it once held.
I run my finger over the white ceramic, and it dips into the small divot on the rim where she accidentally chipped it the morning my life changed.
I squeeze my eyes shut to hold back the tears, my hands clutching the mug equally as tight.
My wedding ring clinks against the cup, and the sound makes me flinch, my heart suddenly slamming against my ribcage.
I want to scream… To break something… To punch holes in the walls until they crack open and magically slip her back into my arms like none of this ever happened.
Opening my eyes, I hurl the cup across the room with a broken-hearted scream tearing from my lungs.
It explodes when it hits the wall, the shards raining over the hardwood floor before I realize what I’ve done.
“Fuck…” I exhale, shaking my head as I cross the room.
Bending down, I gather a few pieces of the broken mug into my palm.
A splinter pierces my skin, and I drop my small collection to the ground with a wince.
I traipse upstairs to the ensuite bath, with blood dripping from my palm, to find a bandage.
When I pull the handle of the drawer, I’m met with the fragrant bouquet of Rosie’s perfume.
The light floral scent is reminiscent of a spring garden and should be soothing.
Instead, the fact that I’m not breathing it in with my face nuzzled in the crook of her neck enrages me.
I slam it shut and tear open the drawer beside it to find her jewelry glinting back at me under the soft glow of the bathroom lights.
Rings she wore every day. Bracelets she fidgeted with when she was nervous.
The musical eighth-note necklace I gave her that she never took off, the one I couldn’t bear to bury her in.
With a sweep of my arm, I grab a handful of the tiny pieces of her life and fling them across the room. They scatter like shrapnel, bouncing off the walls and cabinets before clattering against the floor.
“ROSIE!” The sound of my own voice echoes back at me, making me cringe.
My fists slam into the counter and the wall.
The right punches my reflection in the mirror, shattering it like everything else in my life.
Pain sparks through my knuckles, but it does nothing to stop me.
I leave destruction in my wake until my chest is heaving and air refuses to fill my lungs.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t think.
On my knees, I curl into myself as if I can make the world smaller. The tiles are cold, and the fragments of her life are strewn around me, glittering in the dim light. I rock back and forth, clutching my head, sobs tearing out of me in ugly, broken wails.
Crawling across the floor, I drag myself from the bathroom and toward our bed.
Her side of it is untouched, perfectly made, the way she always insisted it be.
The sight of it only breaks me further. I collapse onto it, burying my face in her pillow.
Her scent is faint, but the sweet scent is devastating.
For one terrible second, I can pretend she’s still here.
Like if I turn my head and open my eyes, she’ll be there beside me, staring back at me with sleepy brown eyes and a soft smile.
I clutch the plush fabric to my chest and breathe her in before rolling to my side of the bed.
After swiping the partially empty bottle of whiskey from my nightstand, I take a generous swig.
The burn barely registers these days. No matter how much of it I drink, it doesn’t help me forget.
Not fully. Just enough to dull the edges so I don’t tear myself—and this house—apart with my grief.
I polish off the last few gulps and let it fall from my grip to the floor.
After pushing from the bed and crossing the room, I stop at her dresser.
The still-damp blood on my fingertips stains the fabric cover as I dust my fingers over her journal.
I pick it up, my hands shaking slightly, and open it to a random page.
The soft looping letters of her handwriting fill the paper.
She wrote about everything… our life, about love, how much she believed in me, and a future that doesn’t exist anymore.
I used to adore reading the words she shared with me, but I can’t bring myself to read them now.
It feels wrong to let her voice live on when her body is gone.
I slam it shut, and the sound echoes through the room like a gunshot.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Disheveled. Red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. Matted hair. Hollow cheeks, partially hidden by my now unkept beard. I barely recognize the man staring back at me. He looks like a stranger.
“It’s all your fault,” I slur at him, my spittle peppering the mirror. This is my fault. The thought hits me so hard it steals the breath from my lungs. “It’s your fault she’s not here.”
The red light on the mic clicks off, and I slide my headphones around my neck. I glance up at the clock on the wall and drag a hand through my hair. “Shit…”
We were supposed to be done over an hour ago. This trip to the studio was supposed to be nothing more than a few small tweaks and updates, a rewritten line, and a couple of harmonies that didn’t quite sound right on the final tracks.
“Again?” my producer asks from behind the glass, already rolling toward the console, his fingers hovering over buttons.
“Yeah. One more pass. Then I gotta go. I promised Rosie,” I answer, but my voice isn’t as easy as it was earlier. “I just need a few minutes.” I step out into the hallway before anyone can say anything else and pull my phone from my pocket.
Rosie answers on the second ring, “Hey, handsome.”
“Hey.” I pace the narrow hallway. “We’re running behind, and I’m still at the studio.”
There is a brief pause, just long enough for me to feel guilty for letting this album absolutely consume me. “East, it’s fine,” she insists gently. “I am very capable of going on my own. And while I appreciate you being there, you really don’t need to be.”
“I know you are.” I sigh, leaning my shoulder against the wall. “That’s not the point. I want to be there. We should be done in twenty minutes, and since it’s on this side of town, I should be able to meet you there before your appointment.”
“Okay,” she exhales, and I realize that she’s choosing peace over arguing. “Just don’t drive like a maniac to get there on time.”
I can’t help but smile. “No promises.”
“I love you,” she shares at the end of a soft laugh.
“I love you too, dreamer.”
Back in the studio, we finish in three clean takes. The second it’s done, I thank everyone, stow my guitar, and am halfway out the door while my producer is still talking about playback.
My fingers drum against the steering wheel, and I curse every slow driver I get stuck behind. When I manage to pull into the doctor’s office parking lot in time, relief washes over me.
Inside, the office smells faintly of antiseptic and fake lavender. A receptionist looks up with a polite smile as I approach. “Hi.” I smile back at her. “I’m here for an appointment with my wife, Rosie Shaw.”
She types on her keyboard and frowns slightly. “I’m sorry, but it looks like she hasn’t checked in yet.”
“She must still be on her way.”
“One of the other patients said there was a bad accident on 65,” the receptionist shares. “Maybe she’s just stuck in traffic.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I step back outside and scan the parking lot for Rosie’s car. When I don’t spot it, I pull my phone from my pocket and call her. It goes to voicemail. I hang up and call again. It rings twice before connecting.
“Hello?” The voice coming through the speaker is wrong.
“Where is Rosie?” I snip, skipping over pleasantries entirely. “And who are you?”
“Sir, this is Trooper Lawrence—”
“Where is my wife?” My voice cracks through the words, panic instinctually clawing its way out of my chest. “And why do you have her phone?”
“Sir, where are you located? We can send a car to—”
“I don’t need a car,” I snap, anxiously pacing the sidewalk. “I need to know where my wife is.”
There’s a pause. Long enough that the world seems to pull back, sound draining away until all I can hear is my breathing and my pulse thumping in my ears.
“Sir,” he says carefully, “there was an accident…”
“She’s gone because of you,” I berate the reflection before me.
If I had left the studio on time… If she wasn’t driving herself…
“Stupid,” I spit at my reflection. “You stupid, selfish son of a bitch.”
I was supposed to protect her. That was my job. That was what loving her meant. And I failed when I wasn’t there.
Anger twists in my gut, ugly and violent. I hate the road. I hate the drunk asshole who got behind the wheel. I hate how random it was, how meaningless. But most of all, I hate myself.
I grab the picture frame from the dresser and trace my fingers along the curve of her cheek. “I should’ve been better,” I whisper to her smiling face. “I should’ve loved you louder. I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve…”
I press it to my forehead, teeth clenched so hard my jaw aches as uncontrollable, hot tears stream down my face. “I’m sorry,” I choke. “So fucking sorry.”