Chapter 20 #3
I thought I’d seen every permutation of Frannie’s smiles, but the one she was giving me now was unfamiliar. Warm, but also tinged with something else. I squinted at her. Was it worry? Sadness?
She set down her takeout container and turned to face me, her hands gently squeezing my shoulders.
“What I’ve loved about you since the day we met is how funny, creative, brilliant—and yes, imaginative—you are.
And given everything you’ve been through, you’re probably entitled to be a tiny bit crazy.
I would call you interesting-crazy; definitely a tad too superstitious-crazy.
But not crazy-crazy. However, like the Packers, I do sometimes worry you’ve taken this ‘what you write comes true’ thing a bit too seriously and .
. .” She hesitated for a moment. “And, well, I’m sorry but I have to say this out loud.
I’ve been reading about unresolved grief lately, and I think yours might be affecting you in ways you’re not seeing.
And I’m not only talking about Sam.” She tilted her head. “I’m also talking about Callie.”
Wow. I stood there in shocked silence and tried to process what felt like a major best friend foul.
Once I’d finally made it to college and out of my childhood home—a home filled with the singular type of quiet that could only be rooted in misery and unspoken recrimination—I’d never intended to upend the fiction that I was an only child.
It was only that one ill-advised night in college when Frannie and I got stupid drunk after a week filled with heartbreak over a boy (Frannie) and distress over a supremely shitty midterm paper (me) that I’d been unable to stop crying.
In a sobbing stupor, I suddenly found myself blabbing about the one day of my childhood I wanted to erase from history.
The next morning, hungover from equal parts alcohol and regret, I’d made her swear she would never bring Callie up again.
And she’d been true to her word. Until now.
Through gritted teeth, I said, “I don’t want to talk about her.”
“Don’t you think the fact that nearly twenty years later you can’t even stand to say or hear her name is proof that you need to deal with your emotions? This is bigger than just Sam. We both know it.”
I crossed my arms. Frannie was wrong about this.
I grappled with my emotions about Callie all the time.
I thought about her almost as much as I thought about Sam.
But it was one thing to atone privately and quite another to have Callie’s name bandied about by someone who hadn’t even met her, let alone loved her the way I had.
Callie’s loss was my burden to bear. I glared at Frannie, refusing to cede any ground.
“Look, all I’m saying is, the Packers and this whole Max thing aside, I wouldn’t mind seeing you invest in your emotional well-being.” She glanced out the window before adding, “Maybe just think about seeing a therapist? What’s the worst that could happen?”
I didn’t want to think about worst-case scenarios.
I’d had enough of them to last a lifetime.
Then Frannie leaned in to give one of her trademark big hugs.
I allowed it, knowing everything she did was out of love, but for once I couldn’t make myself return the hug.
As I blinked back tears, my body physically braced against the wave of loneliness washing over me.
I’d held myself together through worse, though.
If I waited long enough, the feeling would eventually pass. It always did.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Sleep tight.” Then, when she was about to close the door behind her, she popped her head back in. “Hey, Thea? I’m really proud of you. You’re a goddamn New York Times bestselling author!”
I felt a shadow of a smile penetrate my expression and I waved goodbye, my version of forgiveness for her transgression. This day had felt like a lifetime, but Frannie was right about this part. I was a bestselling author, which was something no one could ever take away from me.
After Frannie left, I checked on Lucy and watched the rise and fall of her chest for several minutes from the edge of her bed.
She slept peacefully, unaware that her beloved grandparents were busy throwing darts at our perfect life together.
Everything would have been so much easier if right from the start Lucy and I had lived in our own apartment, and Rebecca and William had been normal grandparents who took their granddaughter to the American Girl Café once a month.
Or if Sam had never gone for that run. Or if I’d never written my debut novel in the first place.
I couldn’t deny I’d had a hand in creating this sense of entitlement that made the Packers feel they had an open invitation to interfere in our lives, and to judge my emotional well-being.
I’d all but unfurled a red carpet and cast them in starring roles in Lucy’s life, and mine as well.
Staring at the ceiling, I hit shuffle on a well-worn mental playlist: Thea’s Justifications and Rationalizations.
Lucy was born fatherless, to a single mom, during a global pandemic.
It was better for her to be surrounded by more people who loved her.
I was overwhelmed and alone. I was consumed by grief.
It would help keep Sam’s memory alive for all of us.
On Lucy’s new scalloped-edge nightstand sat a framed photo of Sam.
I reached out and picked it up, my fingers trailing over his beautiful face.
The thing was, for years after Sam died, I’d still felt surrounded by his love.
Every square inch of the guesthouse had been packed with our memories.
The acts of tripping over his hulking racquet bag in our closet or using his favorite coffee mug or wearing his old T-shirts were the touchpoints that kept Sam and our love for each other alive.
As did the very act of writing Love You to Mars and Back.
But in this apartment, which contained only minimal traces of Sam, I could no longer feel his presence in the same way.
Which was a terrifying thought. But it was also necessary for making space for new relationships.
With thoughts of Max, I placed Sam’s photo back on the nightstand and slipped out of Lucy’s room.
I checked my phone, but much to my consternation, there was still no response from Max. For now, the best strategy I could think of was not to panic. Hopefully he would be back this weekend, rendering everyone’s growing concerns—mine included—moot.