Page 44 of The Write Place

Kathy comes back to tell us she’s closing up. When we leave the bookstore, it’s dark and cold. I tuck my books under my arm and shove my hands into the pockets of my coat.

“Can I walk you to your car?” Daniel asks. I indicate my car parked on the street, about two spaces away from where we’re standing.

“I’m right here.”

“Oh. Okay. So, Tuesday, then.”

I smile. “Tuesday.” I turn toward my car.

“Hey, Mac,” he calls, and I face him again. “My publisher wants me to go to this poetry reading next Friday night in Chicago since I’m close, and they’ve cut me a lot of slack, so I don’t really have a choice. But the poet is a good friend.” He runs a hand through his hair, and my fingers itch to weave themselves into it. I ball my hands into fists in my pockets. “Do you want to come with? I think you might enjoy it.”

I smile widely. Maybe we can be friends after all.

“I’d love to go with you,” I say. His smile looks relieved, too.

Chapter 19

On Monday, I wake up before dawn and toss and turn for a while, unable to get comfortable but not wanting to face the day. It feels so much like the sleepless nights and lost mornings in the months after Ellie died when I couldn’t drag myself out of bed and didn’t bother going to school that I, eventually, force myself to roll over and put my feet on the floor. My therapist would be proud, I think ruefully as I stand and drag myself to my closet. I pull on an old pair of jeans and a hoodie, and I throw my hair up into a messy bun before I pad into the kitchen to make some really strong coffee.

Eventually, gray light starts filtering in through the blinds. I check my phone. There’s a message from Jenny—it’s just a heart. She and I usually talk later, when the day is over, but it’s nice to know she’s remembering too.

I sigh and deposit my empty coffee mug in the sink. I grab the thick, red plaid blanket from on top of my couch and slide on some boots. I toss a hat over my hair, stuffing most of it inside and pulling it over my ears, and I start the slow drive to the cemetery.

I stop on the way to get two chocolate frosted donuts and another cup of coffee. I bring all of these and my blanket with me to Eleanor’s grave site and sit cross-legged facing her headstone. I pull the blanket tightly around me against the chill in the air and hold my coffee cup, letting the steam warm my face. I reach out a hand and lovingly trace the letters of her engraved name, then I lay out a donut in front of her headstone as an offering and take a bite of the other one. I sit in silence for a while before I start talking.

“Hi, Ellie. It’s been yet another year, and I still miss you,” I whisper. I take a minute in silence to finish my donut. “I know I always wish you were here, but this year I am really missing you. It feels like everything is so out of control, and I could use my sister right now.”

I go on to tell her everything—about school and Daniel, how we met and how I’m trying to figure out what’s happening. Toward the end of my whole story, I start crying too much to continue. She probably knows, anyway, wherever she is.

I sit like that for a while, crying without trying to talk anymore, and then I curl my blanket tighter around me and shift on the ground so I’m sitting right next to her headstone. I rest my cheek against the cold stone and breathe in the faintly metallic scent of it.

I don’t know how long I sit like that, but the sun has just started its descent by the time I stretch my stiff legs. I stand, putting a hand on the headstone in farewell.

“Till next year, sis. Love you.”

I can feel my eyes are raw, and I can’t breathe very well through my nose. I wipe my eyes with my sleeve again and make my way to my car.

When I turn the corner onto my street, I see Daniel’s car parked outside my place. I pull into my driveway and kill the engine, though I don’t make a move to get out. My phone buzzes.

If you tell me to go, I’ll go. I just wanted to be here if you need.

I take a shaky breath and start typing a few times, only to delete everything. My eyes start to water again, and I wipe at them, eventually settling on a message.

I don’t want you to see this.

I toss my phone on the passenger seat next to me and lean my cheek against the window, feeling exhausted and defeated. As soon as the message is sent, I realize the last thing I want is to be alone with this anymore, but it’s too late now. He’s going to leave and what’s done is done.

A minute later, there’s a gentle tap near my head. I wipe my eyes with my sleeves again and see Daniel peering into the car. His expression is neutral, though his left hand is jammed stiffly in his pocket and his shoulders are tense. I feel myself almost sag with relief as I open the car door and swing my legs out, but I’m feeling a little shaky, so I don’t stand. He drops to his knees right in the driveway in front of me and takes my hands in his. I don’t look at him, but I can feel his eyes on me.

“I want to be what you need today. And if what you need is me to be gone, I’ll leave.” He squeezes my hands lightly. “But I don’t want you to think you’re saving me from something if you send me away. These past few weeks have been an absolute whirlwind, but one thing I know clearly is that I want to be here with you, Mac. With all of you. Even the messy parts.”

Tears start spilling over onto my cheeks, and I don’t move to wipe them away. He waits patiently for me, and I force myself to meet his eyes. He’s studying me, acting as if he’s not kneeling in $200 jeans on the cold pavement of my driveway. My tears land on our hands, but he doesn’t seem bothered by that, either.

“Stay.” My voice is steadier than I expect it to be, but hoarse from crying. He squeezes my hands again.

“Let’s get you inside, then.” He stands, pulls me up, and closes my car door behind me, putting an arm around me and pulling me close to him. He takes my keys from me and opens my front door, leading me into my condo and sitting with me gently on the couch. “Tea?” he asks and I half-laugh, starting to get up, but he puts his hand on my shoulder. “No, I’ll make it. Just stay here.” He gets up and walks toward the kitchen, pulling down mugs and searching through cabinets for the tea.

I arch an eyebrow at him. “Can you? Make tea, I mean.” I ask, my voice still quiet. “Didn’t your family have servants to do these things for you?” He stops, one hand still on my cabinet door, and stares at me.