Chapter 1 Monroe #2
Everyone here has a story—stories, more like.
Unfortunately, loss doesn’t happen once.
Grief exists in multitudes, and even years later, the hurt resurfaces.
Sometimes when I facilitate these sessions, with people painting side by side, I miss the days of watching crappy reality TV with Charlotte, taking paint breaks that usually ended with us in a mess of colorful smears, gorging ourselves on heaps of junk food.
An hour later, I’m putting everything away with help from a few straggling students and community center staff.
Friday nights in summertime DC are busy, both with commuters leaving the city after a long week of work and twenty-somethings decked out in club wear, heading to dinner before a night out on the town.
The sunset peeks between buildings as I shuffle toward the metro.
Sweat beads at my brow from the dense July humidity, my skirt sticking to my chaffing thighs.
I can’t wait to get home and get out of these clothes.
I’ve two stops, then a line change and another three until I’m in the heart of Shirlington and picking up my order from my favorite Thai restaurant a few blocks from home.
When I step inside the apartment, I put my Thai on the counter and change out of my work clothes, grimacing at the smear of pink across my silk blouse.
With a groan, I head for the sink, handwashing the spot and hanging it next to the top I wore last Friday.
A row of canvases line the hall leading to the bedroom, an assortment of pieces made by Charlotte and me that I can’t seem to part with.
The rest I gave to her parents. They don’t match at all, but they mean too much to tuck out of sight.
Throwing on my ex’s old light-blue button-up shirt and a pair of green-striped tube socks, I go back into the living room and grab a container of fresh bok choy from the paper bag.
In the corner, my two bunnies watch me. Sir Thumps-A-Lot sits on his hind legs, rapidly tapping his foot while Jessica eyes me warily.
She sees the leafy green clutched in my hand and scampers over to the edge of the pen, her tiny white nose wriggling.
They go for the bok choy the moment I lay it on the ground.
Her entire body is white, where his is chestnut brown with snowy spots around his floppy ears and tail.
Kneeling, I unlatch the pen, and they rush out from its entrance.
Sir Thumps-A-Lot zips in speedy circles around the kitchenette, and I pat my thigh.
“Hey, hey! You just got your cone of shame removed. Take it easy or you’ll need stitches again.
” He slows to a gallop, spots the leaf I’m holding, and sniffs it a few times, greedily inhaling it in tiny bunny bites.
Jessica frolics over, nudging me for more.
Situating myself on the couch, I throw on the latest season of Smash or Pass, picking up where I left off. Sir Thumps-A-Lot leaps onto the cushion next to me, screeching in pain as he does. I check his hind paw, but the stitches are all intact.
“Thank goodness you didn’t rip those open. Again.”
Jessica Rabbit was originally Charlotte’s.
She’d planned on getting a second one, as bunnies do well in bonded pairs, but then she found out she was sick and it never happened.
I spent so many hours between work, volunteering at the community center, teaching a few online college courses, and checking in on Charlotte’s parents, that I started fostering bunnies to give Jessica a buddy.
Right now, that’s Sir Thumps-A-Lot. Though he’s not like my usual fosters.
I found him a few months ago after a little boy was crying by the basketball court. The chestnut bunny was caught in the wiring of its metal fence. “You’re almost healed. Let’s just get through tomorrow’s appointment so some lucky person can adopt you.”
I wish it could be me, but Jessica hasn’t taken a liking to him.
Even now, she huddles near the bowl in the corner of the pen, watching me pet Sir Thumps-A-Lot with nothing but disdain.
I scratch his fluffy chin, and he scoots closer, inspecting my drunken noodles with avid curiosity.
I grab another leaf of bok choy and shove it under his nose.
Resigned, he begins gnawing at it, attention drifting toward the TV.
A couple is caught sneaking away to hook up behind the villa.
Sir Thumps-A-Lot perks up an ear, so I pretend he has some clue of what’s going on, pointing out my favorite celebrity personalities who I think are slated to win love and the grand prize.
I know the show is scripted. These people were forced together by a bunch of producers and paid to be extra dramatic. Those are not the conditions for building a real relationship. Regardless, an ache settles in my chest.
My attention drifts to my phone, and I pick it up, swiping through my messages.
Don’t text him. It’s over, Monroe. Set the damn boundary.
It’s my nightly mantra, especially heading into the weekend when I don’t have as much on my plate.
Jay moved out three months ago, a year after we broke up.
He wanted more of my time and attention.
I’d given him all I could give. And while I should have made him leave sooner, I was barely home anyway, and he was all too happy sating my occasional slipup.
But it had become clear this pattern was doing neither of us any favors.
Once the third episode of the show is over and I’ve sufficiently vegged out, I spot Sir Thumps-A-Lot asleep on the couch cushion.
Cleaning up after myself, I throw on my audiobook while I get ready for bed.
One benefit of living alone is that I can listen to my spicy books without worrying about anyone else being around.
I’ve recently been in a why choose mood, and after a delicious slow burn, things are finally heating up under the full moon.
Heading into my bathroom, I brush my teeth, listening to our heroine get railed against the window by her ex while her two new boyfriends watch from outside. My thighs clench and a flush spreads across my chest as the scene continues.
Damn, that’s hot.
Feeling frisky, I pull open the drawer and set my light-pink flower-shaped vibrator atop my nightstand. Turning out the light, I set my phone on its charger and climb under the covers. I’m about to grab my midnight self-care treat when my phone buzzes.
I sigh, glancing over at it, and set the vibrator down.
Dana
Dr. Tanner. Sorry to wake you, but would you be able to talk?
Dana’s a client and usually comes to Painting Hope every Friday, one of the sunnier personalities that cheers on the others in the group. She wasn’t there tonight, though, and I didn’t think much of it at the time, but a text this late is cause for concern.
Me
Of course. Give me five and I’ll be available.
With a yawn, I set my kettle atop a burner, sifting through the cabinet for my decaf teas and grabbing a calming herbal blend and a teacup with storybook scenes painted around its circumference.
While I wait for the kettle’s wheeze, I fill the mug with water from the sink, tossing half into the soil of a browning succulent and the other half into a vase with some wilted ranunculus flowers, gifts from clients despite my gentle warnings about their doomed fates in my tiny apartment.
As I let the tea steep, I call Dana, glad to be able to offer her some reassurance, even at the cost of personal downtime.
Guess I’ll rest when I’m dead.