Chapter 1
Chapter One
“Ma’am? Are you alright?”
My lungs are heaving, and not from the mile I’ve just run.
All I can see is the cracked cement blurring between tears as I hold my head between my knees.
The sobs wrack my body in between each shaky inhale.
Lifting my head, I use the corner of his t-shirt to swipe at my dripping nose.
The worn material falls away, black streaks smeared across the grey fabric. Why did I put on mascara before a run?
Oh. Right.
Because even if I’m just jogging, I need to look runway ready.
I knew I should’ve bought another tube of the waterproof stuff. Pull it together, Bridget. A few limp strands of my long, dark hair have escaped my ponytail, almost like they’re begging to be rescued.
Am I alright?
My husband of twenty-six years is dead.
I still snuggle into the imprint on his side of the bed and wake up dreaming that he’s holding me.
This is his t-shirt.
It doesn’t smell like him anymore.
My mascara is running.
It never smudges, much less runs, certainly not from tears and certainly not in public.
Am I alright?
Nope.
He’s gone.
And two years later, there are days where all it takes is an Anise Swallowtail in the park to make me feel like nothing’s going to be alright in my world again.
But you can’t tell that to a stranger at the corner of Pines and Second.
“I’m just fine.” I slip into a reassuring smile, the one I’ve perfected over the past two years. Enough teeth to show I’m sincere, not enough to look entirely unhinged.
The woman narrows her eyes, nods twice, and starts pushing the stroller and her smiling toddler back down the sidewalk, casting a few curious glances back over her shoulder.
My feet refuse to move for a few more moments before the muscle memory takes over, and my scuffed tennis shoes are once again smacking the pavement. It’s the same route we ran together each morning before breakfast. I keep thinking running it without him will get easier.
It doesn’t.
As I turn down our idyllic suburban street, I remind myself to look up and notice the green buds pushing out of the mighty oak trees.
A few neighbors are mowing their grass. Their lives are carrying on, and I remind myself women who are processing their grief in healthy ways don’t want to spit in their home owner association president’s perfect yard because her life is fine and mine isn’t.
Just before I reach the driveway, the low hum of the mail truck rounds the corner. Noah slows down as he pulls up beside me, already hanging out the doorless cab.
“B!” He tips his mail hat like we’re in a Western movie. “Out running before 9 AM? I feel like this requires a victory celebration. Coconut ice cream still your sweet treat of choice?”
I move the back of my hand over the mascara circles I’m sure I have under my eyes, probably making it worse. Luckily, Noah’s seen me uglier. And drunker. And crying into a pizza box at 2 AM back in college. He was my friend first, Owen’s roommate second, and still the only one allowed to call me B.
“Don’t make it weird.” I probably look like a deranged raccoon slinking back after a romp in the dumpster. “I’m just reminding my legs they still work.”
He tilts his head to the side, the same easy grin that used to talk me off a hundred ledges, back when we were all too young to know better starts to falter.
Then his blue eyes are crinkling at the corners as he leans farther out of the cab, and I hate that they still have that don’t BS me effect they’ve had since college.
“Hey, you alright?”
I shrug, then shake my head because lying to Noah never works. “There was a butterfly in the park.”
His mouth hardens, and I see his throat bob in a forced swallow. “Yeah? What kind?”
“Anise Swallowtail. He loved those.”
“He was obsessed with them. Did you know the caterpillars mimic bird droppings? My brain is full of Owen butterfly facts that will only be useful in a bizarre trivia category.”
I chuckle, but it comes out high and strained. “Yep. Most people get into birdwatching, not Owen. He was out there stalking butterflies like a six-year-old with a net.”
Noah huffs a laugh, but his is also laced with sadness.
“He dragged me along more than once. I think he thought I’d appreciate the wingspan facts.
But I clearly only remembered the bird shit ones.
” He pauses, gaze flicking over me. “It’s a good sign though, B.
Means they’re coming back this season. He’d like that. ”
My throat tightens. “He’d want me to like it, too.”
He shifts in the seat. “You still have his butterfly book?”
I nod.
“I gave my copy to his mom. Thought she might need it more.” Silence stretches for a minute. “You want me to swing by later? Bring coffee? Talk about anything but bugs?”
I swipe under my eyes again and manage a watery grin. “I’ll be fine.”
He nods before rummaging through the pile of mail on his dash and handing me a few pieces: grocery flyer, bill I’ll pretend I didn’t see, and one addressed to Owen Lawson or Current Resident.
I blink, but it’s too late. The tears well up fast again.
“Some days it feels like it’s getting easier. And some days it doesn’t.” Noah’s voice wavers.
He doesn’t elaborate. I know he misses Owen too.
“You know… your fennel’s staging a coup.” Noah nods toward my front yard where the feathery green stalks sway like they own the place. “If the swallowtails are here, we need to spruce up the place for them.”
I know what he’s doing—offering me a lighthearted off-ramp from the emotional spiral currently attempting a triple axel in my chest. But he’s picked the wrong plant. My throat tightens, something curling low in my belly at the idea of anyone messing with the butterfly garden.
I’ve already made a public scene twice today, and I’m not ready to have a meltdown in my driveway for the neighbor's viewing pleasure. “I’ll see if I can talk them down. Maybe negotiate some peace terms.” My voice is smooth, steady. I am in control.
He leans in a little, mock-serious. “I could come by Saturday. Help you tame them. I’ve got hedge clippers strong enough to take on a jungle. Found a whole bicycle beneath the overgrowth in my cousin’s yard last spring.”
I glance at the wild sprawl of the fennel, then back at him. His dark hair is all clean lines and military precision, of course he could conquer chaos. “I don’t think there’s a bike in there, but who knows. Could be some treasure.” I will make it through this conversation without crying.
“I’m happy to risk it, treasure or not. Friends don’t let friends get lost in their own flower jungle.”
It’s past time to trim the garden. Owen would be distraught over how chaotic I’ve let the space become. The HOA is distraught over it. That alone should be enough to push me to do something about it.
It’s the only space I’ve let fall apart since he died. Everything else, the house, the meals, the fundraisers, has stayed perfectly intact. But the garden? That’s where I let it go. “That’s nice of you.”
He shrugs, easy and unbothered. “Offer stands. Only don’t blame me if I decapitate a zinnia.”
“I’ll take my chances. Now, go be a civil servant.”
He lifts two fingers in a mock salute, puts the vehicle in gear, and drives off down the street. I watch for a moment, comforted by the familiar site.
Turning into the driveway, I pause, inhaling and steadying myself like I do each time a memory surfaces and makes it harder to step into the empty house.
I kick off my shoes at the front door. At the one-month mark, I forced myself to move his shoes into the garage.
I make my way down the hallway. At the three-month mark, I removed the pictures of him from the hallway, because it was too painful to have them greet me instead of his face every time I opened the door.
I grab my coffee mug from the cupboard so I can pour myself another cup. At the six-month mark, I boxed up his favorite coffee mug, the “butterflies are the new birds” one with a chip on the handle that he swore tasted better than any other cup in the cabinet.
I don’t bother sitting at the table, just pop a piece of bread in the toaster and eat while I stand in the kitchen. At the nine-month mark, I stopped setting his place at the table by accident.
At the one-year mark, I gave away his old college T-shirts, all except the one I’m wearing—because I realized they didn’t smell like him anymore, just like me pretending.
There’s no guidebook for how to evict a ghost gently. Grief moves in and takes up every room, and the only way to reclaim the house is one tender eviction at a time.
Some days are getting better. But today isn’t one of those days.
Wanting nothing more than to wallow in the wreckage of memories that assaulted me this morning, I force myself to change into something slightly more socially acceptable. A plain black t-shirt and dark leggings. Color just feels like it’s asking too much on an Anise Swallowtail sighting day.
I rush to the bookshelf, wishing someone had disrupted my color-coded system. When reorganizing by publishing date doesn’t work, I run a cloth over the invisible dust on the already spotless surfaces in the living room. Then I’m straightening the shoes and sweeping nonexistent crumbs.
My phone buzzes on the counter as I’m settling in to scroll through museum assistant or exhibition curator job positions I have no intention of acting on before going to another PTA meeting. I can go through the motions. I am going through the motions.
Harper: Coffee. 3 PM. No excuses. We’re making you a social media profile today. It’s tough love time. I love you xoxo
I don’t respond right away. Instead, I stare at the message like it’s a summons to jury duty. My daughter means well. But there’s something about the way she says we’re making you a profile that makes me feel like I’m being dragged to my own execution.
I can do new baked good recipes, coupons for comfy shoes, and order the occasional bright-colored cardigan. I don’t do social media.