Page 4 of In Somnis

I didn’t use to be. I used to talk through entire meals, commercials, and family walks. My dad called it lovingly “my running commentary.”

Somewhere along the way, it turned into something I had to apologize for.

I tug at my purse’s zipper, opening and closing a small section over and over. “Are you from here?”

I don’t expect him to engage in small talk with me, but I’m afraid if I stop talking, I’ll literally pass out right here on this stool. I could crawl back into my car for a nap like I’ve been doing, but my existence already feels a little less heavy simply by speaking out loud to someone. Even if that someone is very aggressively pretending I don’t exist.

“I’m from Boston. Or, well, I was. Been on the road for a few days now. I took some naps and breaks, but it’s mostly been… driving.”

He sips his water.

“My car’s small. It’s a yellow Beetle. She’s my little Bumble Bitch.” His eyes flick toward me, and I grin at him. Score. “I love it. It’s cute as hell, not a great car for long hauls, though. Definitely not comfortable. Do you drive a truck? You seem like you could be a truck driver. Those are comfy, right? Big seats, cup holders the size of my head?”

He’s a stubborn one, remaining silent.

A better woman would take the hint.

“It’s pretty here in Oregon, or I guess it’s pretty.” I glance out the window, even though I know it’s pitch-black, at the parking lot washed in harsh yellow light. “I looked up places to stay this morning, but apparently, the Oregon Coast is like fall-tourism central. Everything is booked solid. The internet says people come in flocks to watch whales and see the leaves change.”

I let out a breathy laugh. “I’ve only seen gas stations and bad coffee since I’ve gotten here.”

His eyes are on his water again.

Okay. Apparently, some people simply aren’t talkers.

I dig my phone out of my purse, telling myself I’m checking the time or maybe scrolling through something mindless to keep my eyes open, but my thumb finds the voicemail app before I can stop it, and there it is, paused right where I left it.

I should delete it. Should have deleted it days ago. Instead, I hit play and press the phone to my ear.

Static crackles through the speaker, then Spencer’s voice cuts in—he was still my boyfriend at the time—slightly muffled as if he’s holding the phone away from his mouth.

“She’s not picking up. Where the hell did she run off to?”

A pause, then rustling fabric. He clearly thought he’d hung up when he shoved the phone in his pocket, but the call kept recording.

“She’s probably talking to the pastor,” Sienna, my former coworker and former friend, huffs out. I know that tone. I’ve heard it across stainless-steel counters and half-drunk staff meetings for years. “I’m so glad the funeral is over. Six months in the making, finally. I mean… right?”

Six months.

That’s how long it took pancreatic cancer to hollow my mother out from the inside. Six months of watching her shrink into hospital gowns, learning which veins would still take an IV, and pretending lemon cake could fix anything when we both knew it couldn’t.

Six months of cooking for her, even when she couldn’t eat. Of making things just in case, small portions, soft textures, whatever might tempt her. Of standing at her stove, doing the only thing I knew how to do, even when it didn’t help, because doing nothing felt like giving up.

I didn’t blame my friends or my boyfriend for pulling away while I poured everything I had into my mom. I had nothing left to give anyone else. But that day, when they showed up in black clothes and polite sympathy, I thought maybe that was it. The first careful stitch in repairing what had torn open between us. The beginning of fixing things.

When Spencer held my hand, I thought I could fix my relationship.

When they hugged me, I thought I hadn’t lost my friends.

My life wasn’t over.

“God, yes.” Aubrey laughs in her practiced corporate way, clearer through the voicemail than the others. “She’s been such a downer. I know it’s been hard for her, obviously,” she adds quickly. “But she’s so self-centered now. She never has time for anything.”

“Right? She’s not like she used to be,” Sienna agrees.

“I asked her to be a bridesmaid for a reason, you know? Support? Fun?” Aubrey says, continuing her complaints. “I can’t even get her to commit to a dress fitting. Honestly, I’m regretting it.”

My free hand drifts across my stomach, where the fabric is pulled even tighter now that I’m sitting. Bridesmaid. I’ve been agonizing over that stupid dress for weeks, already picturing myself in a fluorescent fitting-room light, turning sideways, and tugging at seams that won’t cooperate. I would’ve done it for her. I would have gone to the fitting, but her wedding is next summer, still months to go. I thought I’d have time.