MARCH
-One Month Later-
You know you’re on a downward spiral to nowhere good when you cancel jobs to get out of working. AJ is pissed at me, or I’ll assume he’s pissed at me because I haven’t called him back in an entire week and I don’t even know if he went to get a paternity test he had scheduled or how that all worked out. I’ve been a shitty brother, as well as a shitty co-worker, and yet part of me doesn’t care, which is even shittier.
I can look in the mirror and tell myself I have a problem and I need help. I just haven’t gotten to the point where I’ve picked up the phone to get help. Everything hurts all of the time whether I’m awake or asleep. I have spent every day these past few weeks sitting on the frozen ground in front of mine and Ellie’s tree. It’s fucking cold out here but this pain is only skin deep and it hurts far less than everything in my stomach and chest.
“You fucking dickwad,” his voice echoes between the snow banks. “How many jobs are you going to make us lose? Get your head out of the clouds and get your ass in the truck.” AJ rounds the slight corner from the stone stairs, holding his arms tightly around his body, shivering against the frigid temperatures.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, wondering why after sitting here for at least an hour I feel far less cold than he looks.
“Looking for you, jackass. Why haven’t you returned any of my calls? Or Charlotte’s? What the hell is going on with you? First it was the unusual silence and now you’ve just been completely MIA. I’ve seen this before, Hunter. You’ve been down this road already. You aren’t going back down it again. I won’t let you.”
I can only stare back at him because I have no good response, as usual.
“Get up and get in the truck, Hunter,” he demands. “I’ve let this go on long enough.”
Instead of moving, I relax my head against the tree and close my eyes, lifting my chin toward the sky. Flakes of snow are feathering down over me as particles of ice rest on the tip of my nose. While inhaling the painful air, AJ yanks me from the ground and pins me to the tree. With my back scraping against the engraved letters I once carved, anger floods through me, and the desire to swing at my brother is nearly irresistible. Exercising restraint, I grit my teeth as AJ’s face stops only inches from mine. “Get in the truck, now,” he says again.
I didn’t agree or disagree but he’s dragging me up the stairs and I’m complying with little effort. Suddenly, I’m freezing and my muscles are aching below my numb skin. The steps become a blur and I don’t regain my strength until my back is pressed up against AJ’s truck. The passenger door opens and AJ shoves me inside. Never in our lives has he been stronger than I am. I’ve always been the bigger of the two of us but right now I don’t have the energy to fight back.
He slams the door and makes his way around to his side, sliding in and slamming his door in the same fashion. His fists drop against the steering wheel as he releases a brash growl. “I’ve had it, Hunt. We’ve all had it.”
I let him talk because it doesn’t matter what I say, it won’t make a difference and it won’t diminish his anger. That’s AJ. He wears himself out until the steam goes away. He starts up the truck and peels out of the lot. The snow is coming down harder now, making visibility tough as we continue down this road. I glance down at my watch, noting the time. It’s only noon but if the snow is going to continue like this, they might dismiss Olive earlier than normal. “Where are you taking me?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he mumbles through a shiver. Reaching over to the center console, he turns the heat all the way to the max and then does the same with the volume knob, allowing the sound of the heater to mix with the harsh tones of Metal Rock.
I turn both down, glaring at the side of his face, waiting for him to tell me where the hell he’s taking me because at this point I know it sure as hell isn’t home. “AJ, don’t be a dick.”
He laughs and looks out his window as if he doesn’t want to acknowledge my statement. “The baby isn’t mine. I’ve contacted a lawyer to draft up the papers and at the end of this week, I’m checking out of the hotel I’ve been crashing at and I’m staying with you.” All of my answers in one simple sentence. Regardless, I should have called him, especially since I thought he had already sort of moved in with me and yet he didn’t come home this past week. Part of me just assumed he was working things out with Alexa but I should have asked. I get it.
“What the hell were you doing at a hotel all week?” I ask.
He shrugs and looks over at me with defined anger staining his eyes. “If you had answered any of my calls, you would have known but when you nicely ignored my tenth call, I figured you didn’t want me crashing at your place. Then Mom filled me in on your bullshit behavior.”
“Of course she did.”
“Dude, you fucking need help. This isn’t okay and it isn’t fair to Olive.”
“Don’t you dare bring her into this,” I snap back.
“Yeah, no, see, I am bringing her into this because this is all about her. She is the only thing that matters and should matter in your life and yet you can’t even get your ass to work right now so you can continue to support her. So as Olive’s God-dad, I’m here to step in and get you the help you need to give that little girl as normal of a life as she can have without a mother.” His words stun me, they taser me, holding me hostage along with the truth I would rather deny.
As I’m considering everything he said, the truck jerks around and we pull into a nearly empty lot against a small house-looking structure. “What is this?”
“Let’s go,” he says, stepping out of the truck. He’s out of his mind if he thinks I’m following him into whatever this place is.
“Tell me what this is, AJ,” I demand as he opens my door. “Quit it with the bullshit.” I’m losing steam and I can see he’s only gaining more of it.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Choice is yours,” he says, folding his arms over his chest.
“Yeah, I’m not walking into some deserted building just because you want to threaten me.”
I remain seated in the truck as he smashes his fist down on the roof. “Fine.” He pushes off of the truck and walks off and into the building, leaving me sitting here watching and waiting for him to come back out. I glance around, looking for a sign or a hint of where we might be, but there’s nothing.
Since he took the keys with him, I close the door, trying to lock in some of the remaining heat. This is stupid. Yanking my phone out of my coat pocket, I check it to make sure I haven’t gotten any messages from the school about an early dismissal.
Nothing yet.
With my phone blaring in my face, I tap on the text message app and thumb in a quick note, hoping for a response this time.
Me: Ari, I really need to talk to you.
The message falls below the last five messages I sent over the past few weeks. I’m beginning to assume she gave me a bogus phone number just to shut me up. I’m not sure she was planning to offer me her number, but I asked. She definitely battled with a moment of internal debate before finally offering it up.
I hold my focus on the message I sent, waiting to see a delivered note pop up. As I’m waiting, my door reopens, bringing along a drift of snow. A woman stands behind AJ, draped by a down jacket and a black ski hat with her salt-and-pepper-colored hair hanging loosely over her coat. She doesn’t appear cold, annoyed, or uncomfortable while standing behind AJ as he presses his finger against my chest. “Don’t be an asshole.”
AJ moves to the side, allowing the woman into the opening of my door. “Hunter, I’m Amy Torris and I’m a therapist who specializes in helping widowers such as yourself. Your family seems quite concerned with your well-being and I’d love to offer some guidance if you’re open to it.” Does it look like I’m open to it?
He brought me to a goddamn shrink. He out of all people brought me to this chick. Un-fucking-believable. “You don’t have to answer any questions or even talk,” Amy continues. “Maybe you could just come inside for a few? I have a fresh pot of coffee brewing.” Is she trying to lure me in like a creep offering a child candy? Not working.
“You’ve hit rock bottom, Hunt,” AJ chimes in. “Do this for Olive.” Olive. Her name could put me in a hypnotic trance and he knows I will do anything for her. If he’s telling me I’m hurting her, I will do what it takes to undo that. I unclick my seatbelt and step out of the truck, going against everything I want to do in this moment. Passing by the therapist and AJ, I make my way up to the front door of this ratty looking building.
I let myself inside, looking in each direction for which way I should continue walking in. Before I approach the gold-plaque directory on the wall, Amy’s voice interrupts my question. “Take a left and it’s the first door on the right.”
Rather than walking ahead, I allow her to lead the way and AJ follows behind me. Her office looks nothing like the outside of the building. In here, it’s warm, swathed with a bright yellow paint and cream-colored furniture. Magazines line the small tables between each chair and it smells like fresh coffee, just as she promised. “I don’t need therapy,” I warn them both. But maybe I do.
“This doesn’t have to be considered therapy, Hunter. It can be two friends chatting.” Her words are ridiculous, and the meaning behind them is even more ridiculous. People don’t become friends after two minutes, especially when one is forced to meet the other. “Hunter, if you don’t want to talk, you can leave. You have to walk in at your own will.”
“Do it for Olive, Hunt,” AJ says again.
I groan silently and follow Amy through a wooden door that squeaks a melody when opened. AJ remains in the waiting area, leaving me alone with this woman I met ninety seconds ago. As we enter her office, a new scent, which accompanies the roasted coffee, fills my nose. Lavender mixed with lilac, likely aromatherapy oil. Ellie was obsessed with those in the winter since it was as close as she could get to the scent of a flower in the cold months.
It takes me a moment to look around the room noticing the decor is similar to the waiting area, but with the addition of psychiatry degree plaques lining the wall behind her desk. I take a seat on the couch, trying to make myself comfortable, but I notice a box of tissues on the oak coffee table in front of me. Is this woman’s job to make people cry? Maybe I should be a therapist. I make people cry.
“Your family is very worried about you,” Amy begins. “Normally, I don’t work in this fashion since it trifles with the line of patient confidentiality but oftentimes I find that men and women in your situation need a little shove in the right direction.”
“Look, I appreciate you going along with my family’s concerns, but maybe they left out the fact that my wife died over five years ago. This isn’t a new life for me and I’m not crying for help.” A thin line stretches across her mouth. I want to say it’s a condescending look but it’s probably not. “Really, I’m fine.” I wonder if I could send less convincing.
“To be defined as fine is all relative to each person’s thoughts. Would you have considered yourself fine if you looked ahead and saw yourself in this moment ten years ago?” This is a trap. Of course I can’t say yes to this question, which by process of elimination suggests her accusation is true. “Why don’t we go this route? Your willingness to speak with me only for the sake of your daughter tells me that you will do just about anything for her, so we can focus on that?”
While her words float in through my ears and out of the top of my head, I hold my focus on the box of tissues, wondering how many widowers she has spoken to here, how many of them have sat on this couch crying so hard their organs hurt. Widowers know that organs do in fact hurt because our hearts get tired of enduring all of the pain and eventually allow it to spread elsewhere to ease some of the weight.
“I’m not going to pour my heart out to you and tell you all about my daughter and then tell you how sad my life has been for the past five years. I’m not even going to tell you why I’ve been so miserable for the past week. I internalize my thoughts and while it might not be the healthiest method of dealing with problems, it works for me.” I will admit I’m a little shocked to see she isn’t writing down my every word. I’ve been to therapists before, even ones who specialize in widowers. Typically, they start with a pen and paper and jot down every mentionable moment of my life up until the current day. So I’ll give Amy that respect, she’s truly soaking it in rather than creating parts of a research paper on the inner workings of a fucked-up man.
“You don’t have to tell me anything at all,” she says. “Do you have a picture of your daughter on you? AJ told me how adorable she is and now I just need to see for myself.” I know this is another trap but I can never stop myself from showing off Olive. I slip my wallet out of my back pocket and open the flap to pull out the picture I have of her. I lean forward, holding it between my two fingers for Amy to take.
She meets me halfway and slides the photo out of my loose grip. Studying it for a moment, another smile finds her lips. “She looks just like you. I take it your wife must have had the blond hair, though,” she laughs. She laughs because my hair is jet black and Olive’s is so blond it’s nearly white.
“Yes, she’s all Ellie, right down to the words she uses and the way in which she says them.”
“That must be nice,” she offers simply. Again, I expected a: “And how does that make you feel?” but she doesn’t say that.
“It’s a great reminder,” I add in.
“Does Olive enjoy the snow?”
“Not really. She is one of the very few children who would rather sit inside and sip hot cocoa than get all bundled up to go out and make a snowman. She prefers the warm weather.” And just like that, I’m yapping like a fool. Clearly, this woman knows exactly how to get me to talk.
Amy leans forward, pressing her elbows into her thighs. “I don’t think there is anything wrong with you, Hunter. It sounds to me like you’re a doting father and just a little lonely without Ellie. That doesn’t exactly define the word crazy. I know that’s why you must think you’re here right now, but most of the time, I just listen to things no one else wants to hear you say over and over.”
I lower my head in debate. I know I need this but I also know what happens every time I cave to the idea of therapy. It opens old wounds and I end up exactly where I am right now. “I don’t know,” I tell her.
“And that’s fine,” she says, pressing her lips together. “Take all of the time you need. Amy reaches to her desk and retrieves a business card from a little marble tray. “If you decide you need someone to listen to you, call me.”
I take the card from her fingers and slip it into my coat pocket. “Thank you,” I mutter. I’m glad she didn’t ask me to make an appointment or make me feel guilty for not making one. I’m thankful she isn’t pushy and is honestly allowing the decision to be mine, unlike AJ and I’m guessing Mom, who is likely hiding behind AJ.
As I stand from the chair, I feel a vibration in my back pocket. Without considering the thought of being rude as Amy is reciting the hours in which she can be reached, I look down at the screen of my phone, seeing the notification of a new text message. I press read.
Ari: I’m here.
I quickly thumb the keys to ask:
Me: Where?
Ari: My shop. 250 Main Street.
I peer up at Amy, who is now watching with a curious expression. “Is everything okay?” she asks.
“Yes, it’s great.” It’s more than great.
Her brows knit together with confusion. “Whatever that message was, it certainly changed your mood pretty fast.”
“It’s—“ I hesitate before unveiling more information about my life. She seems more interested than anyone else I would share this with, though. “It’s Ari, the woman who has Ellie’s heart.”
“I don’t understand,” she presses.
Elation is bubbling in my stomach and I just want to leave but I remember now that AJ is waiting in the lobby for me, and I’ll have to explain to him why I have walked in and out of here in ten minutes.
I look back down at my phone, pondering for a moment before typing in my next message.
Me: Will you be there in ninety minutes?”
Ari: Yes, I will be here until five today.
I glance up at the clock and sit back down in the seat, removing my coat to make myself more comfortable. I interlace my fingers and rest them on my knees as I lean forward. “Ellie died giving birth to our daughter, Olive. To my surprise, beyond her death, she had a private agreement outside of our joint will that stated she would donate her heart if the situation were to arise. Since she died from an aneurysm, her request was fulfilled. Weeks after Ellie’s death, I began receiving letters from the recipient. They were all anonymous. Five years have gone by, and last week, for the first time, the woman with Ellie’s heart asked to meet me.”
Amy looks intrigued—beyond intrigued, really. There’s a passion filling the question in her eyes. She must love what she does...hearing the stories, then trying to place the puzzle pieces back into the perfect picture she never saw in the first place. Without direction or an image to copy, it must be difficult. “It turns out I have met this woman a few times before. She’s wonderful and captivating, and she knows secrets about my wife that Ellie never cared to share with me. This has all come to a culmination in the past week and it feels as if my mind is imploding.”
Amy laughs quietly. Not a mimicking type of laugh, a sympathetic and commiserating type of sound. “We just got through about five sessions worth of information in three minutes,” she says, leaning back in her leather chair, which whines against her weight. “People don’t always keep secrets to hurt others. Sometimes they keep secrets to protect the ones they love. I’m curious, though, you said Ellie and this woman knew each other?”
“I guess so; though, I’m just learning this now,” I tell her.
“How interesting,” Amy says. “Are you going to continue searching for the answer?”
“How can I not?” I respond. The constant thoughts of Ellie keeping secrets from me have consumed me and caused ripples in the life I have tried so hard to put back together. “Yes, I need to see this woman again.”
“Do you think you are happy to see this woman because she owns this secret or because she has a piece of Ellie alive within her?”
“Both,” I tell her. Of course, it’s both.
“Do you have feelings for this woman?” she continues.
Flashes of Ari’s eyes seep into my mind as I consider this answer. “I’m not sure. I was in the beginning of a nice relationship with a woman who happens to live across the street from me, but she isn’t exactly interested in being with me as I figure out my feelings for Ari, the woman with Ellie’s heart.” The answers are so simple, yet the resolution is so difficult. I’m not sure anything will ever be resolved and I could end up in the same situation I was in before I met Charlotte. Alone. If I never find another woman to be with again, it will be fair, though. Most people aren’t lucky enough to have an Ellie in their life for as long as I did and then live on to experience anything even remotely close again. I’ve come to terms with living out the rest of my life focused only on Olive, but it seems lately that a part of me wants to be selfish, as well.
“Your mind must be aching from the number of thoughts coming and going each minute of the day,” Amy says. “I do think you’re going about this the correct way. You’re sparing the woman you were with any discontent and you’re being fair to yourself to learn what your feelings are for this other woman.” Amy uncrosses her legs and scoots toward the edge of her chair, reaching over to my hands. “For a person whose family thinks he is a mess, you have yourself put together quite well.”
My focus locks on Amy’s hand resting on mine. By the looks of her rippled skin, I’m guessing she is around Mom’s age, which tells me that she’s not only speaking from wisdom and knowledge but life experience, as well. It’s a bit comforting, I suppose.
“I want to come back and talk with you again,” I tell her, looking up into her hazy light eyes.
“You tell me when and I’ll be here.” She pulls out a planner and opens the front cover while she leans toward her desk to retrieve a pencil.
“Next week, same time?” I ask, feeling a slight weight lifting from my shoulders.
She jots my name down into the appropriate box in her planner and reaches to her desk once more for a card. She writes the time and day down on the back of it and hands it to me. “I’m looking forward to hearing what happens with Ari,” she says with a lopsided grin. “Good luck, Hunter.” Amy reaches out to shake my hand and I return the gesture. As I stand once more, replacing my jacket over my shoulders, I feel more space inside of my lungs, like it suddenly became a little easier to breathe.
While walking from the office door, my phone buzzes in my pocket again. I slide it out and see the school’s number calling. Shit.
I answer the phone, pressing it against my ear, listening to the pre-recorded message telling us that the bus will be bringing the children home an hour early to due to the impending blizzard. A blizzard at the end of March? Awesome.
I press through the wooden door, finding AJ comfortable on one of the chairs, thumbing through Better Homes and Gardens. The sight of him reading that particular magazine makes me laugh. We are carpenters, but it ends with the floors, especially for AJ, who has no color coordinating abilities considering he’s color-blind.
“Shit, that woman is magic, huh? A smile and everything,” AJ says, placing the magazine down on the side table while standing up.
“Thank you,” I tell him, feeling a twitch in my chest and twinge of pain behind my eyes. Maybe I’ve been blind to it and Amy possibly enlightened me just a touch, but I realize it’s nice to know I have people who love me and care about my well-being while I work through this mess. Even my jackass brother who is going through his own shit right now.
“We have to get home. School let out early and Olive’s going to be back in forty-five minutes.”
“Dude, have you seen it outside?” AJ asks. “You might want to call Charlotte to see if she can get her.”
And just like that, irritation seeps back in. Not at anyone but at the thought of missing my opportunity to talk to Ari today. “I’ll call her when we get into the truck.”
The moment we step outside, I see that AJ isn’t exaggerating. Three inches must have fallen in the past half hour we have been in here. I pull the sleeve of my coat over my hand and brush the snow off the windshield on the passenger side before sliding in. This sucks.
We pull out onto the road, going less than ten miles an hour, as it’s almost impossible to see out of the window with how hard the snow is falling.
I dial Charlotte’s number and listen to the three rings before she answers, sounding out of breath. “You okay?” I ask her.
“Yep, just shoveling now before it gets too heavy,” she says.
“I’ll clean your driveway off when it stops. You’re going to pull your back out again.”
“It’s fine, Hunt, really, but thanks. Do you need something?” Our conversations sound so friend-zone, but I do care about her as more than a friend and there are many moments where I wish our timing was different.
“AJ was nice enough to drag me to a therapist beyond my willingness to go on my own. I just got the call from the school and we’re trying to get back but there’s a line of brake lights in front of us right now. I’m worried we won’t get there on time.”
A huff of air creates a loud scratching sound in my ear. “You went to talk to someone?” she asks, a hint of hope filling her voice, telling me she was likely in on this intervention, too. “Hearing that makes me really happy.”
“I’m glad,” I tell her softly, almost intimately, speaking nearly under my breath to avoid the looks from AJ. Although, with how hard he is focusing on the road, I don’t think he even realizes I’m on the phone.
“I’ll get Olive and bring her back here until you’re home. Don’t rush, just be careful, okay?”
“I will,” I tell her.
“Is AJ driving slow?” she asks.
“Yes, Mom,” I tease.
“Hunter, don’t start. We both know how AJ drives.”
I’m smiling at her anger but she would normally have a valid point. Today, though, AJ isn’t even hitting ten miles per hour. “I’ll see you when I get home.”
I can hear a smile on her lips as she says, “Whatever.”