3. Waverly
CHAPTER 3
WAVERLY
ONE YEAR LATER…
Fortunate: I found a new Cuban sandwich shop that delivers so I don’t have to leave my house. This fortunate/unfortunate tracker may be just the thing I need.
Unfortunate: I buried my fiancé and I don’t know who I am anymore without him.On the other hand, maybe writing these are a bad idea.
Home without Patrick doesn’t feel like home.
It’s unfortunate-looking furniture all tied together in semblance of a living space that have all seen better days in their first homes. That’s right. Patrick never wanted to buy furniture new “when there is perfectly decent furniture heavily discounted.”
Over the past year since his death, I splurged. I got rid of the hideous, second-hand tan couch that smelled like it harbored a family of opossums, and indulged in a Lovesac. Then went the coffee table I’d stub my toes on at least twice a week. It’s been a slow process, but slowly it’s becoming mine.
The one thing I did end up keeping was the 72-inch screen smart TV. He bought that brand new. Full price. Go figure.
"We're as happy as two can be..." I sing to myself, not caring enough that my voice is pitchy. Something about binging I Love Lucy soothes the soul. Brain popcorn. Mindless TV about a redhead and her husband.
"I guess they slept in separate beds, too," I murmur to myself as I pull a day-old piece of pizza from the box.
The past six months have been monotonous, to say the least. I’ve spoken to my friend Victoria only a handful of times, but I’ve mostly been dodging her calls. My days are spent at the dog shelter, a job I’ve had for over a decade, and my evenings and weekends locked up at home. The notes to and from Tom have become the new normal for me, which is maybe my only saving grace.
I now live on my couch. It's become a staple in the mourning process, and it's meant to be lived on. Plus, I can’t go into our room. I’ve tried. But Patrick’s clothes sit in neat stacks all over the bed. All over the floor. I'm not in the mood to clean that shit right now. I'll hire someone if I have to.
Today is February twenty-fifth: Patrick’s forty-first birthday—or what would have been. I called in sick with work for the rest of the week, not wanting to be near anybody. My mom keeps texting me, insisting I go to grief counseling, but what good is that? I don’t want to keep talking about it. I don’t want to relive that day any more than I already do. I’m comfortable with going through the motions.
Tom sent me a letter and I can’t bring myself to get back to him. The memory of giving him my address is vague. Almost like the entire trip was a fever dream. I’m pushing everyone away and I hate myself for it. To some, it’s a silent scream for help, but for me, it’s how I deal with stuff. Like usual, I’ll resurface at some point.
I chug out of my gallon water bottle, trying my best not to let myself travel too far down this depressive rabbit hole for much longer. Maybe one more episode… I press play and prepare to slide into a final thirty minutes of oblivion, but just as Lucy and Ethel are set to start work at the candy factory, my doorbell rings. I'm an elder millennial—I'll drop to the ground and play dead before you catch me opening the door. So, I pause the TV and freeze. Because if I don't move, they won't see me. Not that there's a chance—all the blinds have been closed like I'm a bear in hibernation, and the back of the couch hides me from the door. I'm safe.
They ring the bell again. Jesus. Take a hint. Nobody’s home.
I wait for what seems like an eternity before whoever it is stops ringing the damn doorbell and I can press play again.
“This is my favorite part,” I murmur to myself.
"Kensi?"
"Holy shit!" I scream, holding the remote like a knife, still lying on the couch.
Roman stands in the doorway, hands in the air with two fingers gripping a piece of silver.
Does he have a key? Since when does he have a key?
"Sorry… I saw your car in the driveway, and when you didn't answer the doorbell, or my emails, or the texts, or…the calls, the carrier pigeons for the past year, I, uh...." Emails? I smile to myself. He stops himself, hands falling only slightly as he looks around at the state of the apartment. He doesn't say anything before he tucks the key back into his coat pocket.
Roman’s the first person I've seen in a year. Aside from the pizza delivery boy and Mr. Kim, the owner of Thai Garden—who I must say personally delivered all of my orders—rain or shine. He was kind enough to give me double of everything I ordered. News about Patrick spread like wildfire, and since Thai Garden was our go-to take-out twice a week, Mr. Kim made it clear it was his duty to keep me fed until I feel 'my negative energy clears’. Whatever that means. Working at the shelter takes up most of my time. Training the teenagers who volunteer there distracts me well enough. They don’t ask questions about my personal life, and for that, I’m thankful. They come in, do what they’re asked and go home.
I lie back down and rest the remote on my stomach. "I didn't know you had a key, Rome. And who the hell sends emails these days?” I scoff. “What are you doing here?" His pinched brows relax as he steps closer. Not too close, though. Thank God. I'm not in the business of giving many fucks right now, but personal hygiene around anyone is still a fuck I do care to give. And one I most definitely can’t promise right now.
"Patrick gave it to me when you guys moved in. Not really sure why. I came to see if you wanted to..." His thumb points behind him toward the door. "Maybe grab some food? Get out of the apartment?"
I take another bite of the hard, room-temp pizza and start chewing with a blank expression on my face.
“It’s been a year. I’m fine,” I deadpan.
“I’m sorry. Working through my own personal demons and mourning my brother ended up taking longer than expected.” He takes a hand and pulls at the roots of his hair.
"You know what?" He eyes my slow chewing and looks back at me. "Would you mind if I helped you out around here instead? Maybe..." His eyes dart to, and quickly back from, the empty cans of pop on the floor. “I can just pick up some of those cans?”
His cloudy-colored eyes sear into me as if he's waiting for me to break. It's the look of pity I hate getting from people. He, of all people, should understand. We stay staring at each other until I finally will myself to swallow the pizza, when really all I want to do is spit it out. It's disgusting. I'm pretty sure I was chewing a hair. My body convulses at the thought. Nasty.
"Sure," I finally say, shrugging and grabbing my water. I lift the gallon to my face again, glaring at him over the plastic.
"'Sure,’ as in I can help…?" he nudges.
I nod. "Have at it. Or you can join me on the couch for this fabulous episode of I Love Lucy ." I stare at the TV screen and let myself zone out again.
He says nothing but starts taking off his leather bomber jacket and lays it across the dining room chair. Our—damnit, my —apartment has an open concept. I can see the whole main living space. I was shocked Patrick wanted this layout, with him being such a private person and all.
I don’t feel Roman sit at my feet until he nudges them for more room. “I’ve never watched this. Isn’t this from our parents’ era?”
“I forgot you were twelve,” I deadpan before I toss the crust of my pizza at him. He yells and catches it because, among all things, he’s athletic. It’s those Huxley genes. I watch him go to take a bite of it before I return to the screen.
“Oh my…What the?!” Roman dramatically spits out the dough in his hand. “This is disgusting. How old is this pizza?” he asks before taking a swig of my-now-room-temperature water.
“And this tastes like breath. Jesus Christ.” He slaps my feet and stands before gathering all of the leftover food off my beautiful coffee table. It’s Mediterranean style and one of a kind, and I haven’t seen the top of it for almost two weeks now. I actually missed the pattern of that tabletop.
“Get up. Let’s go,” he says, coming back from the kitchen.
“No.”
“Yes. You need to get out of here. Your apartment smells like feet, and I’m pretty sure something in that bag of chips was moving.” He points to the big bag of Doritos.
“I don’t want to go anywhere,” I insist, pulling my lavender fleece blanket up to my neck. I hate being cold. Southern California is below temperature this time of year. But I refuse to move out of Venice Beach, no matter how much everything reminds me of Patrick.
He rubs his hands down his face in frustration. “Okay. How about this…I have to run a couple of errands. You come with me, but you don’t have to get out of the car.” He stares at me waiting for the answer. “Maybe we can open the windows, get a nice crosswind going through here?” The desperation of his voice is breaking me.
It’s been a year, a bazillion take-out food deliveries, nine-million movies, sixteen multi-season series, and only showering on the days I work. I’ve not done anything as a respectable part of society. Not that society should be looked at as the norm these days. It’s a shit show out there. But I guess it would be good to get out of the house. And at least Roman won’t grill me about how I’ve dealt with things over the past year. He’s going through the same shit.
“Ehhhh. Fine. But I’m not getting out of the car,” I huff, crossing my arms over my chest.
“I said that already.” He smiles, his eyes sparking with something I haven’t seen before.
I roll my eyes as I slide off the couch. It feels strange to stand and have a destination other than the work, kitchen, or bathroom. I look down at my burgundy sweatpants and favorite, off-white sweatshirt. It has two hands giving the middle finger; an accurate depiction of my mood.
“Nice,” he chuckles, gesturing at the graphic before sliding on his jacket. “Let’s go.”
“You’re not going to make me change?”
He stops mid-movement. “ Make you change? Why would I make you change?” His eyebrows pinch together, genuinely confused.
If Patrick didn’t like what I was wearing, he would ask me to change. It was never forceful, but it was enough to make me feel ever so slightly self-conscious about my clothing choice. I’m confused. Is Roman not embarrassed of me? Perhaps because I’m just a woman he’s helping out of the trenches, and not his woman, so he doesn’t give a shit. I don’t care enough to dig deeper into that feeling.
I grab my wallet by the pile of un-opened mail and follow Roman to his truck. The crinkled white envelope from Tom rests on my legs and I draw in a sharp breath before I tear into it.
Dearest Waverly,
Some people believe others have all the luck. Living in a state where you believe so-called luck is not on your side means you aren’t in harmony with Tao. It’s time, dear.
Luck is not something that randomly happens to someone, but it belongs to you when you decide to live by letting go.
It sounds contradicting, but once you let go of all stress, worry, and fear, you promote a sense of mental and emotional well-being.
Death of a loved one is difficult, but it won’t kill you. Although, you feel as if you’re dying.
Visualize yourself as indestructible.
I’d like for you to try something—not for me, but for yourself…
Keep track of incidents that have “worked out” without you having any influence on them within the past year. When you tense, remember to relax. By the end of the week, you should have enough pleasant incidents listed. Notice how when you change your thinking, you change your life.
Until next time,
Tom
P.S. You won’t heal if you’re trying to become who you were before the trauma. That version of Waverly no longer exists. There is a new you trying to be born. Be sure to breathe life into that person.