Chapter 2 #3
I’m crying before I finish the first chorus.
That’s the other thing nobody tells you about grief.
It doesn’t wait for right moments. It finds the gaps—the songs, smells, and dumb things.
You’re fine, and then you’re not, and then you’re screaming Natasha Bedingfield inside a car on US Hwy 26 in Oregon at nine o’clock at night with mascara somewhere near your chin.
“I’m coming, I’m coming, Tessa.”
That’s when the rain starts. It’s a sprinkle at first, then it turns harder, a relentless drumming against the windshield.
The wipers squeal across the glass, useless against the blur, and every mile feels twice as long.
I keep the windows cracked anyway, raindrops occasionally splatting my face, mixing with tears until I can’t tell which is which.
All of it’s too much—the dark, the rain, the exhaustion, the grief clawing at me, but I keep going and keep scream-singing the chorus.
Finally, my navigation chimes and tells me that I’ve reached my destination.
I turn the music down, roll the windows up, and let silence fall. The parking lot yawns ahead, slick with rain.
I’ve made it.
But I’m running on fumes—gas tank, body, soul—as I park in front of the apartment building and drag myself out of the car.
My suitcase waits on the passenger seat until I tug at the zipper to pull it out, and it gives up on me completely.
Everything spills out. Clothes, toiletries, my life in fabric and bottles and half-folded mess, strewn across the wet pavement under the yellow glow of a streetlight.
Shit.
I crouch, gathering what I can into shaky arms, raindrops and grief, along with four days of being brave pressing down all at once. My thumb slips on the wet pavement, and I hiss when the nail catches and snaps.
Staring at the broken edge, I sigh before sweeping clothes against my chest that feels as though it might crack open, too, and spill out along the suitcase.
Only a little bit longer, Lenny. Just a little longer.
Shoving everything back inside, my hands shake so badly I can barely zip it halfway shut.
There’s still another suitcase in the trunk, but I won’t get that now.
This one’ll have to do. My phone flashlight wobbles over the sidewalk as I walk to the apartment entrance, and there, as Derek said, a key glints in welcome beneath the smaller rock.
Relief slams into me so hard my knees buckle. “Oh, thank God,” I whisper, grabbing the key and clutching it tightly, already planning the shit ton of muffins I’ll bake for that man and his in-laws. They’ll be the best damn muffins they’ve ever had. Blueberry. No, lemon-blueberry.
The elevator groans on the way up, and I wrestle the bulky suitcase against my leg to keep it from spilling open and vomiting my life all over once more.
“The apartment on the left,” I murmur under my breath like a mantra. “Second floor, on the left across the elevator.”
The hallway is pretty dark and smells faintly of old carpet and cleaning spray.
I find the door and wedge the key into the lock…
only it doesn’t go in. Frowning, I try again, wiggling it and pushing harder, as if brute force will make the universe give me one goddamn break tonight, but it doesn’t fit.
Panic prickles under my skin, and I clumsily jab the key again.
“Come on,” I hiss. “Open. Please. Please be good.”
Desperation breaks loose, and I pound my fist against the wood, harder and harder until the fight drains out of me in a rush. I spin around and collapse back against the door, sliding down until I’m sitting on the carpet, my head dropping into my hands.
“What have I done to deserve this?”
The sound of the lock disengaging on its own startles me so violently I scramble away from the door on my hands and knees, sure that I’m finally about to be murdered. The door cracks open, barely an inch, and a sliver of light from inside pours into the hallway.
“Can I fucking help you?” The words drip with irritation, and the voice is so gruff I can’t hold back a cold shiver.
I glare down at the key clenched in my hand as if it betrayed me, then glance back at the slice of shadow inside. I know Derek said the first door on the left.
“What are you doing in my apartment?”
A dark scoff answers me, sounding almost amused. “Are you on drugs? This is my apartment.”
“It’s supposed to be mine. Long story short, I—” I suck in a shaky breath that hiccups halfway. “Actually, scratch that, I’ve never made a story shorter in my life. I—”
The door starts to inch closed.
“No, wait! Please!” My hand darts out toward the crack, ready to sacrifice my fingers to the cause. “The guy… Derek? He said this was mine. Second floor on the left.”
The door stops closing, and there’s one beat of silence before the mystery voice says, “Try the other left.”
I barely yank my hand out in time before the door shuts with a firm click.
Dazed, I stare at the wood grain until my brain finally catches up. Then I hold my hands up with my thumbs out and index fingers straight, and check which one forms the capital “L.”
“Well, shit.”