“Yes, Mom…I’m fine today.” I pause, listening, my phone set on speaker while it sits on my bathroom vanity. “Yes, I know it’s just one day at a time.”

The process of grief is, apparently, a lot like AA. The same virtues and one-liners apply.

People think that if I follow a process, if I stay the course, if I check all the boxes appropriate for grieving, I’ll be fine. Like one day, I’ll wake up and it just won’t hurt anymore.

Bullshit.

I lost the love of my life that day, when our car flipped over on the interstate. And not only that, I lost the child I carried in my belly for nine months, nursed to health every time he was sick, and kissed away every tear he ever cried.

And now?

Nothing.

Just a gigantic black hole in my life where they used to be.

After hanging up with my ever-worried mother, I go through the motions of putting on my makeup. My phone chimes, and I pick it up off the marble surface, reading the text from Brantley. It’s the same text I get from her every morning, and I know that this afternoon when she leaves the studio, she’ll stop by here with the same words she uses every day.

You coming in this morning? There’s some pottery here with your name on it…needs your special touch. Or you can make coffee for the regulars. Your choice.

Every morning for the past month, she’s sent me the same message. And every morning, I’ve responded with the same two words: Not today.

I stare at the phone, reading her words twice, and then…then I place it back down on the countertop.

I’ve never done that before. Usually my response is immediate.

My eyes on the phone, I back out of the bathroom, before turning and hurrying into the master bedroom closet. The closet that now only houses one set of clothes, instead of two.

Last weekend, Brantley came and helped me pack up Trenton’s clothes. We boxed them and sent them to Goodwill. The feelings that took up all the space in my chest while we packed them, they almost swallowed me whole. I didn’t think I could do it, get rid of his things that way. However, after talking to the grief counselor the hospital recommended, and repeated nightly conversations with Brantley over glass after glass of red wine, I finally came to the conclusion: it was time.

His clothes, sitting in the closet we used to share, weren’t doing anything for me. They were taking up space that he used to occupy with his funny, light personality, and his sweet, gentle nature.

That’s gone now. Swallowing, I stare at the empty racks. I still can’t believe how gone he is.

“It’s been nine months,” Brantley kept reminding me. “I know you just woke up a few weeks ago, and it doesn’t seem that way to you. But they’ve been gone, Arden. For nine months. I just don’t want you to forget that. You take the time you need to mourn them. But they’ve been gone for nine months now.”

I love my best friend, but every time she says those words, I want to punch her. Or kick her out of my big, rambling house. Because the number of months they’ve been gone doesn’t matter a bit.

Not to my heart.

All that matters is the absence of them. The absence of my family, my world.

My love.

It doesn’t exist anymore.

I turn away from the empty half of the closet, and then my bare feet are running over plush carpet. Running…running, until I reach the light blue walls surrounding my little boy’s room.

Danté’s room is exactly the way I remember it. I’ve changed nothing, moved nothing.

Because this is where my little boy lived, and I think it might literally kill me to move a single piece of furniture or toss any bit of clothing into a bag. He lives here in this room, whether it’s real or only in my heart.

I stare around at the row of white floating shelves that house the sports-themed picture frames. Danté as a newborn, Danté, Trenton, and I…smiling for the camera. Danté as a smiling toddler, up to no good, like he often was.

And Danté as the bright, beautiful, three-year-old boy he was when he…

A sob escapes me as I sink to my knees on the floor. I curl into a ball and lay there, sobbing and rocking against the soft beige carpeting.

My chest is caving in. I can’t breathe, and instead of sobbing, I’m just gasping for air. Everything hurts, my bones ache as my limbs turn to stone. And my heart threatens to beat right out of my chest.

It’s a panic attack; I know the symptoms now. But getting up to grab my medication would mean leaving my son’s room, and I’m not ready to do that just yet. I can almost smell him here, the fresh scent of the body wash we used on him every night in his bath. Pulling out the precious stuffed elephant he slept with and cradling it to my chest, I allow myself five minutes to get lost in my grief over the son I loved with every ounce of me, and lost.

Just like that.

And after five minutes is through—the same five minutes I’ve taken very day since I’ve been home—I stand up, brush the tears away from my face, and return to my bathroom where I left my phone on the vanity. I quickly punch out a text to Brantley.

I’m on my way. I’ll serve coffee.

* * *

As soon as I walk in the glass front door of our coffee shop and studio, the whimsical chime over the door sounds my arrival. Brantley bursts from behind the counter and wraps me up in a hug so tight it hurts.

“You’re here!” she wails into my shoulder. “Oh, my God, Arden!”

It’s a big step. I haven’t been here since before the accident. Ever since I woke up at the hospital, I couldn’t even think about coming here. About working. It just all seems so trivial, so mundane now.

But today? Today, I couldn’t stand to spend another second in that house, missing them.

“Here I am.” My response sounds lame, even to my own ears. “I’ll get to work.”

Detaching myself from her arms, I head behind the counter and ignore the scrutinizing glance she’s covering me with.

I launch myself into the daily duties of running a coffee shop.

I could make coffee in the front shop of our studio in my sleep. The atmosphere is homey and comfortable, and I keep myself behind the counter as I fill orders. It’s not exactly a rush, but more of a steady influx of people on their way to work, just strolling down the streets of Savannah while they enjoy the sunshine and early tumbling of leaves from the trees.

Savannah is one of the most gorgeous cities in the country, one of the places where summer lasts much longer than it’s supposed to, even on the first day of fall. Here, autumn sneaks up in mid-November, and until then, we continue living outside, enjoying the perfect temperatures and classic Southern setting.

Our studio, The Art Of Java, lies tucked away on one end of Broughton Street, a historic downtown spot where the foot traffic always flows. It’s unusual for me to stay behind the counter while I’m working in the shop...or, it was. I like to talk to people, normally buzzing around the place, making sure everyone likes their coffee and is comfortable in the shop. I’ve always had boundless energy, and using it to serve others is what I’ve always been good at.

Today, I have no desire to leave the cage I’ve created for myself behind the counter. I listen to the orders, I make the drinks or plate the pastries, and I hand them over with the smile that feels rusty, tired, and false.

Brantley watches me from a distance, hovering, but still giving me my space, and I remind myself that’s why she’s my best friend.

The morning whizzes by, and then so does the afternoon, and even though I’ve barely spoken more than a few words to anyone, I feel like I’ve accomplished something. Something more than walking through my house all day, searching for two ghosts who will never be with me again.

Taking off my cherry-red apron and placing it neatly on the hook behind the counter, I call to Brantley in the studio. “I’m out. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

She appears in the doorway, studying me. “I’ll be over with wine tonight.”

I give her a small smile. “I’ll be expecting it.”

She tilts her head to one side, a thick chunk of her brown locks hanging over the side of her face. Brantley and I are opposites in every way. Where’s she’s dark and olive-skinned, I’m rosy peaches and cream. Where she’s curvy and petite, I’m tall and willowy. My fine blond hair, that I wear nearly to my waist, is a direct contrast to her thick, chestnut waves that reach her shoulders. Her dark brown eyes always see me, even when I’m closing my green ones to try to hide.

“You going for a run?”

I nod. “It’s that time of day.”

She doesn’t question it, just gives me a little wave before turning back to the studio. Brantley knows that I run at the same time every day, no matter what. Even on the darkest day, I run.

It’s the only time I can breathe.

Less than an hour later, I’m lacing up my sneakers and heading out my front door. It’s less than a two-mile run to one of the biggest parks in Savannah, and it’s where I love to lose myself on a trail. Forsyth Park isn’t far from where Trenton and Danté are buried, and I always manage to veer toward the cemetery.

The smooth pavement of the running trail carries me beneath dripping piles of Spanish moss, the picturesque setting a perfect backdrop for the pounding rhythm I’ve found in my fourth mile. The buds in my ears pour out music I never would have chosen nine months ago. It’s all hard, frenzied renderings of songs that shatter your spirit. Anything softer than that would crush me, and there’s no possible way I’d survive it. I need music in order to keep going, but the music I need doesn’t soothe me…it drives me.

It’s during mile six when the Sick Puppies’ “You’re Going Down” pushes me to the peak of my run, the place where I turn and head back toward my home. It’s a smooth transition on a day that I’ve chosen a long run, because the tall, iron gates of the cemetery loom in front of me.

Going inside? Not an option. It’s something I did once with my parents and Brantley, right after I came home from the hospital. I knew then I had to, because even though our home held their things and our memories, they were gone. And I needed to say goodbye.

I’ve never been able to cross that threshold again, even when everything inside me burns with the need to touch the stones surrounding their graves. I’m held back by the invisible chains of despair, because looking at my little boy’s name on a headstone nearly ripped me apart the first time.

Shuddering slightly at the sight of the gates, I jog in place for a few seconds before turning. Tears well in my eyes as the music shreds me, pushing me to keep going.

I only take one step forward before I slam into a solid wall. It’s so unexpected and jarring that my arms windmill backward, as I fly through the air and land on my ass two feet away.

My bottom burns as it hits the ground, my hands scraping against asphalt, and one of my earbuds dangles beside my shoulder.

The sound of a quiet whine jerks me from my shock as I look up, and see I haven’t run into a wall at all.

I ran straight into a man, and even though he stands with the sun at his back, I can clearly see the frustrated expression on his face. Despite his black sunglasses, my focus is drawn to his eyes.  He attention sweeps the path around me, as if he’s searching for the cause of the impact. As my eyes continue to scan him, my attention lands on the dog by his side.

The regal German Shepherd sits patiently, waiting for his master’s command, but he emits another slight whine as he stares at me, head tilted to one side. His tail thumps the ground repeatedly, letting me know that he’s sorry for knocking me over, even if his owner is too rude to acknowledge it.

Standing and brushing myself off, I park my hands on my hips and stare him down. Animosity flares inside me, transforming the body-numbing sadness I felt just moments ago into something solid and real. “Seriously? Is this something you usually do when you run with your dog? Just plow women over and don’t bother to help them up?”

His focus snaps to my face. He scrutinizes me carefully, and I continue fuming because letting loose on someone, anyone, feels so damn good.

I step closer to him, glaring up into the sharp, masculine contours of his face. Suddenly, I really wish he weren’t wearing sunglasses, so I could take in his expression and really give him the kind of hell that would put him right in his place.

He opens his mouth, but there’s no chance he’s getting a word in yet.

“I mean, what are you, blind? My ass hurts now, thank you very much!” I point down toward my backside, for emphasis.

His full lips twitch, and his face morphs into an expression that’s half-amused, half-bitter.

What the hell does he have to be bitter about? It’s not like he just picked himself up off the ground after slamming into what felt like a wall made of steel!

Finally, after a moment of silence, he barks out a laugh and runs a hand over the dark brown hair shorn close to his scalp. Then he tugs on the leash and stares pointedly down at his dog while clearing his throat. As my gaze falls toward the German shepherd, the dog’s tongue hangs out of the side of its mouth while it pants by his side. Then, my eyes find the camouflage-colored harness attached to the leash and the patch on the side that reads:

Trained Guide Dog: Nitro.

I blink, reread the sign, and then my stricken gaze slides back to the man standing in front of me.

Oh, shit. This is not happening.

His expression wry, his mouth twists into an ironic grin. That grin…it sparks something inside of me.

Because it’s the first time since I woke up that I’ve encountered someone whose agony mirrors my own. It swims in his expression as I watch, forcing his smile-that-isn’t to disappear just as quickly as it came.

“Actually, yeah. Yeah, I’m blind. So, I’m sorry if I knocked you down. It was an accident.” His voice is hard, unforgiving, and cold. It scrapes across my soul like glass shards. “Hope you’re not hurt. Other than your ass, that is.”

Dark humor accompanies his last words, and my face heats with shame.

I shake my head, mortified, before I remember that he can’t see the movement. Then I squeeze my eyes shut and plant the heels of my palms against my eyes as I suck in a deep, calming breath. “Look—”

“Don’t worry about it.” He holds up a hand, already done with my impending apology, and turns with the dog’s leash tight in his hand.

“Sorry again,” he tosses over his shoulder as he finds a pace and jogs away from me, winding along the path, not quite in a straight line.

I watch him go, speechless, and wish there was a way I could kick my own ass for being like this.

I never used to be like this. Who is this person? Am I ever going to feel normal again?

It’s a question I continue to roll over in my mind as I run the six miles back to my house, my feet pounding the pavement with a punishing force.

The answer arrives unbidden as I stop at the bottom of my driveway.

This is your life now. You’ll never be the same.