Page 21 of Goodbye Days

“But. Are you sure you want me?” Because I wouldn’t want me.

“I’m sure. Who else could do it?”

Deep trepidation knots my guts. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to answer now. Think about it. What’s the worst that could happen? It wouldn’t be exactly like having Blake. But we can’t have Blake. So maybe we can have this.”

Her eyes are gentle. There’s less distance in them than the last time I saw her. I don’t want to say no. But I can’t bring myself to say yes.

“You don’t owe me a thing,” she says. “If you can’t do this, I’ll understand. Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow morning and think it’s a bad idea or that I can’t handle it. But will you consider it?”

“I will. I promise.” I study her face for any sign that I’ve broken something. I see none. At least there’s that. “Thanks for lunch. I better finish the mowing.”

Nana Betsy leans across the table and hugs me for a long while, her hand on my cold back. “Thank you,” she whispers.

I lie on my bed, still wet from the shower, with my fan blowing on me. I find this soothing. It conjures up getting out of the wading pool when you’re a carefree kid and letting the sun dry you.

I plan my night. Most have been spent sitting around watching Netflix with Georgia. But she’s going out with friends. I suddenly realize how quiet and barren my life has become. How little my phone beeps with a new text or call. How many solitary nights lie ahead of me.

I don’t want to be alone. Normally I’m fine with it. But not tonight. My mind turns to my sole possibility for company.

I start to text Jesmyn but equivocate. Is this weird? We’ve had a sort of emotional connection, but was it somehow conditioned on the moment? On the detachment of texting and talking on the phone?

Under other circumstances, I might have agonized more. But loneliness breeds a desperate courage—the what-do-I-have-left-to-lose? kind. I text her before I can reconsider.

Hey. Want to hang out tonight?

My phone buzzes. Totally. What time?

I sigh in relief. 7? I can pick you up.

Cool. 5342 Harpeth Bluffs Drive.

It’s like I finally opened the seal on a jar of salve.

I go to the kitchen and warm up some grocery-store rotisserie chicken I find in the fridge.

“What are you up to tonight?” Georgia asks. She sits at the kitchen table, texting, dressed to go out.

“Hanging out with a friend,” I say through a mouthful.

“A man-date or—”

“No, Jesmyn. Eli’s girlfriend. The girl you saw with Eli’s parents at Mars’s and Eli’s funerals.”

“The hot one? You should’ve introduced me.”

“She and I have gotten closer since then.”

“What’re you guys doing?”

“I have a couple of ideas. Mostly talking.”

This is the point when Georgia would ordinarily be teasing me. Mussing my hair. Trying to give me a wet willie. And I wish she would, because that would be a concession to normalcy. It sounds weird to say out loud that I’m hanging with my deceased friend’s girlfriend. I need Georgia’s teasing to tell me it’s okay.

Instead, she gives me an aw-isn’t-it-great-that-your-life-is-moving-forward pat on the shoulder. “It’ll be healthy to talk with someone.”

My mom walks in. “Hey, honey. How’s Betsy doing?”