Page 44 of Goodbye Days

Jesmyn starts to say something but stops herself. I look over at her. She’s staring straight ahead. Finally: “Today, when I was practicing, I started crying. Randomly. Like I wasn’t remembering Eli at that moment or anything. It’s just—like what I was playing unlocked another door in me and stuff came rushing out. Grief is weird. It seems to come in these waves out of nowhere. One minute I’m standing in the ocean, fine. The next minute I’m drowning.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“I noticed.”

I blush. “Thanks for the reminder.”

“If you didn’t feel their loss, what kind of person would you be?”

“The kind who has a shirtless picture of himself as his phone’s home screen and drinks wolfseed?”

“Exactly.” And then under her breath: “You are determined to make me yak.”

What I’m determined to do is keep making her laugh, because her laughing makes me forget for at least a moment.

I stop and turn to her. “I like talking to you.”

“Same,” she says, facing me.

“I’m going to miss some of tomorrow too because I’m going to this therapist my sister used to see. Apparently he’s good.”

“Smart idea,” she says.

“Do I seem that crazy?”

“No more than I do for randomly crying while practicing. But you seem like you’re hurting.”

“I am.”

“We both are.”

We walk to a nearby fallen log and sit down.

“I want to hear you play the piano,” I say.

“Okay. As long as you let me read some of your writing.”

“If I’m ever able to write anything again.”

“You will. But I’ll accept old stuff until then.”

“Okay. When we get back, I’ll give you something.”

We watch some deer appear from the woods and begin to nuzzle around the margins of the meadow, cautiously approaching the middle to feed and sniffing the air.

“You’re the best thing in my life right now,” I say softly, so as not to scare the deer. “I’m glad we’re friends.”

Jesmyn shifts position on the log, making herself comfortable and—maybe it’s my imagination—sitting closer to me in the process. “Me too.”

The waiting room to Dr. Mendez’s office is filled with sleek, modern furniture that still seems somehow organic and welcoming. Copies of the Atlantic, the New Yorker, and the Economist sit on the tables between chairs. Everything is in comforting hues of brown and gray. Nothing looks thoughtless or haphazard.

Georgia sits beside me, texting.

A door opens and out walks a slim man who looks to be in his midforties, wearing a well-tailored beige linen suit with no tie. His tidy beard is gray and his hair is graying at the temples. He’s wearing rectangular tortoiseshell glasses.

He glows when he spots Georgia. “There’s a familiar face!”

Georgia leaps from her chair. “Can I give you a hug since I’m not your patient anymore?”