I’m pacing in circles around the living room, desperately searching for a neon blue backpack. How can something that bright just disappear? God, she’s going to be late for her first day of kindergarten and I will have already failed before the school year begins. “Olive?” I call out. “Have you seen your backpack?”
I yank up the cushions on the couch, knowing the bag can’t exactly fit under here but I’m running out of places to look. I’m freaking out right now. That’s what this is. I’m definitely freaking out because I’m not ready to send her to school. She’s too young. She’s not ready. She won’t want to let go of me. I should just homeschool her—maybe that would be best, but then I’d have to quit working with AJ, and he’d kill me if I did that. Not to mention that Olive and I would both starve.
“Daddy, what are you doing?” Olive asks, in her squeaky little voice. I turn around, dropping the cushion down. “Did you lose something?” She walks toward me with her backpack firmly perched on her shoulders, lunch bag in hand and wearing a smile that tells me she’s not nervous to leave me. It’s me who doesn’t want to let go of her, not the other way around. Having her with me for these last five years has been my lifeline...my way to keep a piece of Ellie near me. My heart aches for a brief minute as I stare through her, imagining what this moment would be like if Ellie were here. Would Ellie be crying? Probably, but she’d also be excited for Olive, and she would help me be brave as we send our little girl off to her first day of kindergarten. At least I know she would approve of the eye-blinding blue backpack. It was her favorite color, too.
“Nope, I didn’t lose anything. I was just straightening up.”
“No,” she croons with a toothy smile. “You were looking for my backpack.” I swear there is a twenty-year-old living inside of my five-year-old. “Don’t worry, Daddy. I’m going to be okay today. And so will you. I made you lunch and breakfast. And I plugged your phone into the charger because the battery bar turned red.”
I kneel down and open my arms up, waiting for her to run to me like she always does. “You made me lunch and breakfast?” I ask as I tighten my arms around her tiny body.
“Yup. I made you cereal for breakfast and bread and mayonnaise for lunch. Now you won’t have to make lunch by yourself today.” A tiny breath escapes her lips and her eyes look at me with as much seriousness as a five-year-old could muster up. “You told me yesterday that you would be sad not having anyone to help you make lunch while I’m at school, and I didn’t want you to be sad.”
My chest tightens a little more. “You are the most thoughtful little girl in the world, Olive. Thank you for making me meals.” Her wet lips press against my cheek and her hands squeeze against my back.
“We’re going to miss the bus,” she says. I look up at the clock, seeing we have five minutes to get to the bus stop down the street, so I scoop her up and head out the door. I don’t want to let her go. I’ve kept her by my side for five years. And to show for that, she’s probably the only five-year-old who could install a carpet with her eyes closed. Every day has been a “bring-your-child-to-work day” and I’ve loved it. Today will be the first job without her next to me in five years.
By the time we reach the end of the driveway, AJ is pulling in. His window is down and his head is craned out of the window. “Is my big girl finally going to school today?” he shouts over.
“Uncle AJ!” she shouts, wriggling herself free from my arms so she can run to his truck. “I’m going to school!”
AJ throws the truck into park, hops out and swings his arms around Olive. It’s seconds before she’s sitting on his shoulders. “You are going to have the best day, little girl.” He tickles her senselessly until she’s hanging upside down and completely out of breath.
“We’re going to miss the bus,” I tell him.
“Well, Mr. Serious Pants said I have to put you down,” AJ says in a mockingly deep voice. “Can’t miss the bus on your first day, Ollie-Lolly.” With one last giggle, Olive runs back to my side, slipping her hand into mine.
“Come’on, Daddy,” she drawls.
“I’ll be back in twenty,” I tell AJ.
“I’m heading right over to the job site. Just meet me over there when you’re ready,” AJ says. I give him a quick nod and continue toward the bus stop. “Hey, Hunt.”
I look back at AJ as we continue to walk. “Yeah?”
“She’s going to be great, bro. Don’t worry.” AJ is a man of many words, but most of them are filled with humor, sarcasm, or things I don’t need to hear. It makes up for my serious disposition, but when he says something from the heart, it means a lot.
“Thank you,” I say, waving over my head.
“I’m excited,” Olive says as we approach the bus stop.
“I’m going to miss you today,” I tell her, taking in the scene of a half dozen moms and what must be ten kids. What if the bus driver doesn’t see her get on?
“It’s just kindergarten,” she whispers into my ear.
I chuckle against her cheek and place her down. She’s quick to take off, throwing her backpack to the ground so she can join the other kids running across the grassy area. She doesn’t know any of them but she doesn’t care. Olive makes friends with everyone she meets, just like Ellie did. I could learn a thing or two from my intelligent daughter.
“Hi there,” one of the moms says as she approaches me with her hand outstretched. “Are you new to the neighborhood?”
I clear my throat from what feels like a gummy substance lodged between my tongue and tonsils. Keep your shit together, Hunter. “Yeah, ah, Olive and I just moved in a few weeks ago,” I manage to get out while shaking her hand—her warm, inviting, and surprisingly strong hand.
“Oh, you’re the new neighbors in the yellow house?” she says, pointing down in the direction we walked from. I don’t look to where she’s pointing, though, since the wind blowing through her long, auburn hair seems to have caught my attention.
“Yes, Ma’am, we are.” Ma’am? Really? Smooth.
She chuckles quietly. “I’m Charlotte Drake. Welcome!” With an awkward pause because I can’t figure out how to say my name, she continues, “Well, I’m sure you and your wife will be happy here. This is a wonderful neighborhood to raise a family as you can clearly see.” She emphasizes her statement by looking back at all the children playing.
My wife…my wife who should be here with us today, but isn’t. And just like that, I’m reminded how nothing about this day is as it should be. A pain forms in my stomach at yet another thought of what can never be. I don’t know how many important events in Olive’s life will be stolen from Ellie…from us as a family, but with as many as I can count so far, it is still as heartbreaking every time we experience another first. Ellie would have been so proud of Olive today…to see what an amazing little girl she is already becoming.
Charlotte’s words are innocent, but they pack a punch harder than I’ve felt in a while. It’s not like I haven’t gotten the single dad questions before, but today I didn’t need a reminder that our family is broken. I was also hoping a new neighborhood would mean a fresh start, a life without sympathetic looks and the outpouring offers of help. Although appreciated, I wish everyone would give me the benefit of the doubt and realize I can handle things. At least, I say I can handle things, although some things I’m still not great at.
“It’s just Olive and me, actually,” I say, offering her this peephole of information—information I’m only giving because I know it won’t remain hidden for long here anyway. My response causes her to loosen her grip and slide her hand out from mine.
“Oh,” she groans, her captivating lake-blue eyes squinting tightly as if she wants to punish herself for accusing me of having a normal life. “A divorce. They’re horrible. I just went through one myself. At least the asshole left me the house.” She lets out a loud sigh and covers her face with her hands. “Sorry. TMI.” Her eyes for a brief moment and she drops her hands down by her sides. “Anyway, it’s been a long summer, and I was starting to feel like the only one in this neighborhood among the fifty other happily married couples. You know, we should start a divorcee club here. Right? We should. That should be a thing.”
Her rambling is humorous and so are her assumptions of me being divorced. I have, in fact, tried to convince myself over the past five years that I’ve been going through a horrible divorce. I have even tried to make myself believe I hate Ellie and this was my only option. But in no world could I ever hate her. “I’m actually not divorced,” I say. “My wife and I had a great marriage.” Charlotte looks dazed for only a second before her pretty eyes grow wide. The meaning of “had a great marriage” and not being divorced must have clicked in her head.
“Oh my God,” she breathes. Placing her hand over my shoulder, she pulls in a sharp breath and asks, “Did your wife—did she—?” There’s no beating around the bush with this one.
Again, I have to do the nod and force my lips into a straight line across my face, hoping she doesn’t force out any further details. I’m not sure if it’s normal or not, but even though an entire five years has passed, it doesn’t matter how many times this question has been asked, everything inside of me still aches the same way it did that night I had to say goodbye. After this long, I think it’s safe to say this pain will never go away but I don’t think it should, and I’m not sure I want it to. Ellie’s missing out on the life we were supposed to live together. I get to live it and she doesn’t. I should feel the pain for her. “She’s no longer with us,” I say, looking past her, watching Olive’s unbreakable smile as she holds an invisible microphone up to her lips and belts out the new Taylor Swift song she’s had me playing for her on repeat.
When I refocus my attention on Charlotte, leaving the moment of despair behind me, I find her with her hands clasped over her heart. “That little girl is lucky to have you,” she says. “You’re a good man. I hope you know that.”
I’m a good man for taking care of my daughter? She turns around and calls her daughter over, then Olive, too. Her daughter looks like she might be a bit older than Olive, but probably no more than a year. Both girls come running and Charlotte kneels down in front of them. “Lana, today is Olive’s first day of school. Will you sit with her on the bus?”
“Mom,” Lana says, exasperated. “We’re already new best friends.” Lana giggles and snatches up Olive’s hand. “Olive is so funny.”
“Yeah, we’re already friends, and you know what?” Olive says with delight. “We live right across the street from each other. Isn’t that great, Daddy?” I look up at Charlotte, wondering why she failed to mention living across from the “new neighbors.” I guess maybe it is because we’ve been hermits since we moved in, and with the car in the garage, we haven’t been out front much.
“That’s great, girls. I’m so glad,” Charlotte says.
The yellow monster coming to steal my daughter catches my eye and I know now that I have to come to terms with letting her go. “The bus is coming,” I tell them. The sinking pit hits the bottom of my stomach as the bus comes to a screeching halt. I’m supposed to let Olive climb onto this contraption that some random person is driving and let her go off, alone, to God knows where. I can’t do this. I grab Olive and hold her against me, running my fingers through her blond curls. It takes all the courage I can conjure to say, “You’re going to have so much fun today, and I’ll be right here waiting for you when you come back. Okay?” I place a kiss on her cheek and squeeze her a little harder.
She kisses me back and pulls her bag over her shoulders. “Don’t forget to eat your breakfast,” is the last thing she says before making the hike up the three mountainous steps of the bus. My throat is tight and my heart is pounding, but I have to control myself—if not for Olive’s sake, then for the fact that I’m surrounded by six smiling women. Why are they all looking at me the way they are? And why do I feel like a little girl whose balloon just popped?
I watch through the windows of the bus as Olive plops down in the second seat. She’s so tiny, I can only see the top of her head above the windowsill. I can’t see her face. I can’t tell if she’s scared or happy. She has to be happy. She has to be. As the bus door closes, her hand slowly pokes up above her head and she waves—this slow, unsure wave. Shit...that does it. I’m done. I turn around, avoiding goodbyes, as well as the staring faces of all the moms looking at me like I’m crazy, and I jog down the hill toward the house.
When I get home, I lock myself inside and lean against the door. I need to destroy something. I take all of the mail on the coffee table and throw it against the wall. That didn’t suffice. Next is the damn coasters Mom gave me as a housewarming gift—I chuck each one of them against the wall individually, still feeling only the slightest bit of relief. It’s just school—she’s just going to school but letting her go hurts like fucking hell and I shouldn’t have to do this alone—that’s why I’m mad. A logical reason, as far as I’m concerned; regardless of the fact that if I were watching someone behave the way I am right now, I’d tell them to man the hell up. I’m not interested in taking my own advice, though, not today anyway.
A knock on the door pulls me out of my moment. A moment similar to others I allow myself to have far too often. I jump up; worried it could be Olive...or something—even though that wouldn’t make any sense. She’s on a bus. To school. A normal part of life.
Whipping the door open, I find Charlotte on my doorstep. Her hands are tucked into the pockets of her jeans and the expression on her face tells me she’s as unsure about standing on my front step as I feel about everything right now. “You okay?” she asks sincerely—the “I get it” type of sincerity, not the type of sincerity where she’s talking to me like a child. Without giving me a second to respond, she continues with, “We’ve all been there. You’re just the only one with a kindergartener this year. The rest of us went through the pain last year. There were six of us standing on the curb in tears as the bus took off for the first time.” She pauses to catch her breath and then lets out a soft laugh. “At least Olive went willingly. You wouldn’t believe what I had to do with Lana last year. I had to drag her onto the bus kicking and screaming. It was like this horror movie. You would have thought I was dropping her off on the side of a deserted road.”
“Yikes,” I offer as a condolence.
“Yeah, I know, right? Once she was on the bus, she stood up on the seat and pressed her hands up against the window, crying for me. I felt like the worst mother in the whole world for the entire six hours she was gone. As you may have noticed, this year seemed a little easier.”
I look at her for a long minute, unsure of what to say since I already used up my “Yikes” remark. What else is there to say? “I’m glad things went better for her today.” Could I sound less interested, or humored by her approach to making me feel better? I tell myself every day to snap out of it and act like a decent person, but it’s like everything inside of me is black and cold. I only have enough warmth inside for Olive. The bitterness just pours out of me and chases everyone away.
“Well, if you want to talk—I...” she points across the street to what I now know to be her house. “I’m just across the street.” Charlotte turns on her heels and releases what sounds like a lungful of air.
“Did I do her hair right?” The words slip off my tongue before I realize I’m calling out for help. What the hell am I doing? I don’t ask for help, encouragement or sympathy. I close doors in people’s faces and hang up on phone calls filled with questions I don’t want to answer. I am closed off and not concerned with what anyone else thinks about my life or me.
Charlotte releases a hearty laugh as she turns back around. “She has great hair and the headband is adorable. You really are doing just fine.”
“I grew up with a brother. Having a daughter sometimes feels like I’m living in a foreign country where no one speaks English.” This is exactly how I’ve felt since the day Olive turned two and grabbed her first Disney Princess doll off of a shelf.
A mischievous look spreads across Charlotte’s face and she retraces her steps up to my front door—where I’m standing. “Do you have coffee?” she asks.
What kind of question is that? Is there a parent awake at this hour that doesn’t drink coffee? “How could I survive without it?” I laugh.
“Do you have more than one coffee cup?” Is she inviting herself over? Is this what parents do when their kids go to school for the day? Hang out and drink coffee while they share secrets on how not to screw up their kids’ lives?
“I have four, believe it or not. They all came in one box—so I didn’t really have a choice,” I answer, smirking a bit. The wittiness pouring out of me is something that has felt unnatural for so long, it feels foreign leaving my lips, but standing in front of someone who understands my current pain, the camaraderie isn’t unfortunate. In fact, I’m surprised to realize it feels kind of nice.
“Do you have enough coffee to fill more than one cup?” Charlotte continues, squinting through one eye as if is she’s waiting for me to say no.
“Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?” I finally ask, not that I wasn’t cornered into asking, but I can do coffee. I can be a normal human being for just a few minutes today. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that she’s incredibly gorgeous. A distraction that looks like her would be okay, I suppose.
“Oh my gosh, thank you so much!” she says, as if it’s an unexpected invitation. “I ran out of coffee this morning—mommy brain. If you didn’t invite me in, I was just going to beg you for some coffee beans. I don’t even have a grinder, but I’m so desperate that I would have pounded the hell out of the beans just to get my fix.”
Her joke makes me my laugh—a real laugh—not like the laughs I offer AJ when I’m trying to make him stop a bad joke before it completely rots.
I lead Charlotte into my house, through the living room, and into the kitchen. I wonder what she’s thinking about the couch cushions, coasters, and mail lying on the ground from my recent Tasmanian Devil fit. “A Keurig,” she says, eyeing the coffee maker. “I like the way you think.” I pull a chair out from the table and offer her a seat. “You’re settled in pretty well for moving in so recently.”
“I don’t like feeling displaced,” I say while pulling down a couple of mugs from the cabinet.
“I hear ya,” she mutters in return, looking at her nails, inspecting each one as if using that as a distraction. Her sudden shift in mood has me questioning if I said something wrong.
I retrieve the sugar and cream and place them both down in front of her. “You okay?” I ask.
“I’m sorry for being rude,” she responds without skipping a beat. “I shouldn’t have so slickly invited myself in after only knowing you for twenty minutes. I really did just want to ask for coffee, but...that’s weird. So is asking you if you had more than one cup. Considering the circumstances, that wasn’t funny. I’m sorry. I don’t exactly know anyone else on our street since we’re the only two with kids, so knocking on their doors would have been even weirder. And the bus stop moms all live two streets away.” She lets out a loud groan. “Hi, I’m Charlotte and I like to ramble and make a fool out of myself immediately after I meet a nice person.” Her nervous laugh actually puts me at ease.
“I did the inviting; you’re fine,” I grin. I’m smiling. I almost forgot about sending my child off to war.
With the mugs both filled, Charlotte pulls a napkin from the pile in the middle of the table and wipes away a sprinkle of fallen sugar. I find myself watching her hands, remembering the way Ellie’s hands looked as she was wiping down our counters. Our counters were always very clean. Everything was always very clean. Ellie was what she’d refer to as a clean freak. I think it was a little OCD, but she preferred the term “clean freak.”
The clattering of the two mugs clinking against each other pulls me from my thoughts of Ellie, forcing me to refocus my attention on the stranger sitting before me. If we were in the old house, I probably would have clawed Charlotte’s eyes out at the thought of another woman placing her hands anywhere Ellie’s hands had been, but that is one of the many reasons I needed to sell our house. I was basically living in Ellie’s coffin with her. Except I’m still alive.
Charlotte hands me one of the mugs as I sit down across from her. This is suddenly weird. I don’t know her at all and she’s sitting at my kitchen table. “I can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve been through,” she says.
I hate sympathy. I really do. When there is too much of one thing, it becomes the least desired part of life, my life anyway. “It’s been a rough road,” I say, running my fingers through my hair.
“One of my closest friends lost her husband,” she says, placing her mug down. “I saw how it took her years to pick up the pieces of her life. Nothing anyone did made the process easier for her, so all any of us could do was just be there for when she needed us.”
I know I haven’t made it easy on AJ or my parents. Actually, I know I’ve been a complete pain in the ass. They’ve all tried to pick up the pieces for me and put them back together in a way they thought I should now be, but Charlotte’s right, there is nothing anyone can do for a person who lost half of their heart. “It’s a horrible thing to go through,” is all I can respond with.
Her focus shifts from me to the empty space beside me, to the picture frame I keep at the third place setting on the table. Ellie’s seat. With a smile, Charlotte traces her finger down the side of the frame. “She’s beautiful. Olive looks just like her.” She pulls her hand away from the frame and rests it over mine. The sensation of her touch causes everything within me to stiffen—everything. With a thick breath lodged in my throat, my eyes lock on our hands—the connection and the disconnection. “Did she pass recently?”
I nod my head, feeling some anger stir within me. Why is she making me answer all of these questions? Most people I don’t know will tiptoe around the subject and just offer the sympathetic stare, but not Charlotte. She’s prying open this closed door that I have tried hard to keep shut. “She died five years, eight months, and twenty-seven days ago while giving birth to Olive.”
I was wondering when Charlotte would crack, but I’m guessing that’s right about now. Her eyes are still wide, staring at me, but now they’re filling with tears. I don’t want someone crying for me or over me. I don’t want anyone talking to me, looking at me, or being near me. I want to feel like I’ve died, too, because it just makes this all so much easier. With no more tolerance, I stand up, pulling my hand away from her grip. Debating on fleeing this scene altogether, I remind myself I can’t exactly run out of my own house, so I put the cream and sugar away, doing my best to stall and hint that I’m ready for this coffee date to end before I say something regretful.
Delaying and all, there is still silence and there are still tears in her eyes, so I walk out of the room. I leave her there crying because—because I don’t think I know how to avoid being an asshole to anyone who dares to step foot into my life.
I circle the living room a few times, trying to even out my breaths, waiting for my heart to give up on the boxing match with my ribcage. But it never relents. The heart always wins over everything else. Whatever it needs to feel, it feels, and it will bring everything down with it.
I fall onto the couch and release all of the air from my lungs. The pain is as prominent today as it was five years ago. It’s like shrapnel in a wound. If the wound closes around what is causing the pain, the pain will forever be embedded. I’ve come to accept this. “I don’t even know your name,” Charlotte says, stepping out of the kitchen, wringing her hands around her wrists.
“Hunter,” I mutter softly.
“I’m sorry for being pushy or nosy but you look like—it seems like you might need a friend. We’re neighbors, so I figured...” I could be a great charity case or pity project to make her feel better about herself.
“Thank you,” I say gruffly. “I’m usually fine. It’s just days like today—firsts in Olive’s life—when everything comes to a head, it feels as fresh as it once did. I’m not usually this much of a mess.”
“I went to therapy with my friend after her husband died—it was the only way I could get her to go. The doctor always told her the pain would never go away but that eventually the good days would outweigh the bad. They also told her that the hard days would be harder than they ever had been before, no matter how much time has passed. Grief is like a scar—you can cover it up all you want, but it will always be there.” She’s saying what I have always thought. Everyone who is someone in my life has told me the pain will lessen, things will eventually get easier, and I’ll move on and forget about her. But in truth, the pain reminds me of her, and I don’t want to forget her so I endure the pain, and I carry it around like a heavy bag on my back. Sometimes I carry it with pride and other times I let it weigh me down until I’m at the point I’m at right now.
Charlotte exhales loudly and looks around the room, focusing on the mess my couch cushions are in. “What do you do for work, Hunter?” she asks hesitantly, sitting down in the recliner across from me.
And I’m done. Time is up. Did she just become my therapist? Because, yeah, I’m all set with that.
“I’m a carpenter. I run a company with my brother.” How the hell do I get this chick to leave? I need time to deal with Olive going off to school before I head to the job site, and instead, I have Charlotte, dredging up every detail of my life. More than I care to share in one day.
“You aren’t with Harold and Sons, are you?” she asks, straightening the pillow behind her, becoming more comfortable. I don’t want you to get comfortable on the chair that Ellie and I spent two whole wasteful weeks fighting over. I hated it, and I won. Then I bought it after she died. Now it’s my favorite chair.
“I am with Harold and Sons.” There are only three carpentry companies here in Sage. And only one of them is family run.
“Shut up!” she squeals. “My parents used you guys a few months ago to refinish their hardwoods.”
I think for a minute, recalling the few hardwood jobs we had. Only one of those couples were on the older side. “The Olsans?” I ask.
“Yup,” she grins. “That’s them. Such a small world.”
“Great folks you have. They were very kind.” Does my voice sound as monotone as I hear it? Why would anyone want to sit here and continue a conversation with me? I did technically invite her in, but that was before I knew she was a female praying mantis, or in this case, “preying” mantis. “What do you do?” Why did I ask that? I don’t care what you do. But I should. So I ask. I should make an effort to talk to a beautiful woman, especially a forward one who almost but not quite, invited herself into my house. I should be thinking inappropriate thoughts right now, and hoping she’s sharing in those inappropriate thoughts. Instead, I’m staring at Ellie’s photo hanging on the wall behind Charlotte.
“I’m a software engineer,” she says. Her response draws my attention back to her face, but I’m guessing it would be incredibly rude to look shocked, so I do my best to restrain my reaction. She doesn’t have the look of a software engineer, but that’s sexist. I’m just not sure I’ve seen a woman of her type, involved in such an intense profession. Wow, I am a total sexist.
“Very cool. Do you work from home?” She’s dressed well for eight in the morning, but not exactly in corporate attire. Jeans, chucks, and a long sleeve white t-shirt wouldn’t be acceptable in any white-collar company I’ve ever seen. But times have changed, I suppose. That dress code was one of the very reasons I made the decision to take up carpentry instead of finance like I had gone to school for. Stuck in a suit, working ten hours a day, and coming home with a headache has never appealed to me. Although, now that I’m about to hit thirty, some days the body aches from carpentry make a job requiring a suit seem more appealing.
“I do. I run my own company,” she says with a bit of pride. “Ever heard of the ‘TheLWord.com’?” The dating site. Oh boy. Internally, I sneer at the mention. Those things are the epitome of love. Matching up strangers based on a couple of common interests doesn’t seem like the most natural form of a connection, but hey, it works for some people. Just, definitely not my thing. Of course, AJ would completely disagree since “TheLWord.com” is where he met Alexa, the female dictator of his dreams.
“I definitely have. It’s your company?”
“I have a passion for helping people fall in love. What can I say?” She looks shy or reserved while saying this, which is a bit shocking considering her previous assertiveness. “Kind of ironic that I ended up divorced, huh?” Right. That’s like being a doctor with an incurable disease, I would assume.
“We live and learn. I bet your divorce will help you grow your company in a way that helps others avoid the path you went down.” That may not have come out right. Actually, I’m hoping it didn’t so we can end this—whatever this is. It’s not unreasonable to want to be left alone right now. I mean, I just let Olive out of my sight for the first time in five years, and I’m here with a woman I met an hour ago. I don’t do this. I’ve actually avoided people and the thought of making new friends for this exact reason. Charlotte looks down at her watch and her eyes widen in suit.
“Oh wow, that hour went by quickly.” She looks back up at me. “You going to be okay until three?” Am I that pathetic? Yes. Yes I am.
“I’ll be fine. I have to be at a job site in an hour, and Olive was kind enough to leave me a bowl of cereal for breakfast that I must tend to.” Air is beginning to percolate in my lungs again as I feel this meet and greet coming to an end.
“I was wondering about the overfilled bowl of lucky charms, but I went on the assumption that you were either starving or still looking for that pot of gold.” With a cunning grin, she flashes a quick wink at me and stands up. “Well, Hunter, it was a pleasure finally meeting my new neighbor. If you need someone to talk to today, my doorbell is only a hundred feet away.”
“Same for you. Single parents unite, right?” Did I just say that? I did. And she’s looking at me with the same look I would be looking at me with if someone said that to me.
“We do. We’ll get through this,” she says quietly. “Thanks for the coffee.” We. There is no such thing as a “we” outside of Olive and me. I stand up and meet Charlotte at the front door, opening it and standing to the side as she passes by. “I’m glad we met,” she says.
I don’t respond. Nothing good would come out of my mouth if I did. It was never my intention to shut the world out after Ellie died, but it was sort of an unofficial commitment I made to myself. If Ellie couldn’t move on with her life, then why should I? I know it’s irrational, as are most of the common decisions I make, but it makes sense in my head. I think.
I watch Charlotte walk down my driveway and cross the street, but now I’m closing my eyes so I don’t stare at her ass because...why do I want to stare at her ass? It is a nice ass, that’s probably why. I’m trying so hard to keep my eyes closed, but with as much restraint as I thought I had, I come to the conclusion that I obviously have none. So I surrender to my weakness and take in the last couple of ass-watching seconds before she disappears inside of her house. I’m a prick—a prick whose day just got a little better, despite my effort of avoiding what could be a lucky charm in my life—one that isn’t overflowing from a cereal bowl.