At my part-time job this week, it’s been hard to focus.

Straightening out my back, I tilt my head from side to side, working out the tenseness in my sore muscles. I love being a chef. I adore everything about this career. Everything but one. Neck pain. Someone needs to come up with a forward neck rest or something. Anyone working in the food preparation industry must be hoping for the same thing, a way to minimize soreness as we keep looking down at food bowls, to chop ingredients, to knead, mix and stir all manner of food.

But all that internal ranting is just a distraction. There’s another reason I can’t keep my thoughts from straying.

By the end of my shift, after all the wait staff and most of the cooks have wrapped up the night, I’m flustered. Did I wipe down and sterilize my prep station? Unsure if I did, I start over, then remove the dozen Cornish hens from Blair’s sub-zero fridge.

Joy is on my mind.

The anniversary of her disappearance is around the corner and the closer it gets, the more unhinged and anxious I feel.

Where are you, sister?

This year, I hoped it’d be a little easier. Different somehow. But it’s worse. Guilt is killing me, drowning me little by little, choking the passion out of me bit by bit. Things have no fucking right to be going this well.

My life should be in shambles.

My bank account shouldn’t be in the black by tens of thousands of dollars.

My business, this fantastic part-time job, even having Dylan in my life.

Their presence all mock the gravity of my loss.

They mock her memory.

I have no one to share this paradox with. It’s the reason I smile and show my bubbly side. The couple of times it has come up with friends, the pity and sympathy reflecting in their eyes are hard to witness. It’s not much different with my best friend, Dahlia. She comes from a place of pure friendship and love. She means well. Her heart is so kind, but seeing my pain spread to her causes me to shut down.

And Dylan. I’ve been seeing him for months. We’re so close now, and know each other intimately in every sense of the word. Fixing things is his specialty. He wants to take my pain away, to resolve the situation, to turn things around so it’ll be over and I’ll have closure one way or another. But even his eyes fill with sadness when mine glaze over with overwhelming sorrow.

The last thing I want is to be the one to suck the life out of a room.

I tuck it away, tamp it down, push it so far from the light of day that when this time of year comes around, the dam bursts its confines and takes over every part of me.

It won’t be pleasant this year.

I’ve been spending a lot of time at Dylan’s place. Maybe my best course of action is to leave it all behind for a day or two. A drive to the suburb where I grew up, perhaps, or a quiet stay in a hotel somewhere.

My hands move from memory as I marinate the hens in Blair’s signature rub. They’re set to be on the menu every Sunday for brunch, and Blair likes the marinate to naturally infuse into the meat.

I wrap them to protect their skin while in the freezer and give my station another thorough cleaning before packing up and leaving for the night.

Dylan is in the habit of picking me up after my shift. Tonight’s no different.

“How did the day go?”

“Great,” I tell him, keeping my tone even as I fasten my seatbelt.

“You’ve been working a lot the last few weeks.”

“Have I? I guess I have. What they say about time flying definitely applies.”

“That’s a given for you. What do you think of skipping town for a few days?”

I look over at him. Can he read my mind now?

“At any other time, the idea of just you and I sneaking away would be amazing. But... I’m not sure about the timing.”

“Isn’t your schedule pretty open for the next week and a half?”

“It is...right now really isn’t a good time.”

“Why not?”

I run my palms down my work slacks, weighing whether or not to tell him.

He beats me to the punch. “It happened around this time, wasn’t it?”

“Sorry?”

“You heard me.”

My response is a simple, slight head nod.

How I wish he didn’t bring it up. The topic has been playing at the corners of my mind for days, and now that he’s said it out loud, I feel worse.

“Do you mind if we maybe talk about it another time?”

“Sure, but let’s not drop it altogether, all right? I’m here for you, no matter how impossibly low things might start to feel.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean it.”

“Trust me, I know.”

He’s silent for a while, giving me space for the rest of the drive home. He parks his baby in his underground spot. His arm wraps around my shoulder as we take the elevator up. When we step into his place, he asks, “Have you ever spoken to anyone about what happened?”

“Sure. You, Dahlia, one or two more old friends.”

“No, I mean with a professional.”

A tiny scoff of a laugh escaped my throat. It’s absurd that he’d ask. “We don’t do shrinks.”

“It might help.”

“I doubt it.”

“Why do you feel that way?”

“They can’t change the fact that for some of us, life is shrouded in death and heartbreak.”

“That’s...dark.” His voice is low, hardly a whisper. “You sound like you’re stuck somewhere in the process of grieving.”

“You’re exactly right. I am stuck. Ask anyone whose family member disappears. They’ll tell you they’re in limbo. Waiting for closure. Wishing for answers. Hoping for the best but bracing for the worst. Life doesn’t get unstuck until there’s closure.”

Taking my hand, Dylan leads me to the living room and takes a seat beside me. “If she’s out there, I’m going to find her.”

“No. The cops tried. If Joy’s alive. She doesn’t want to be found.”

“There are other ways to track her down. Other resources.”

“I think I need to get some sleep,” I say, hoping he’ll leave it alone. Reaching over, I kiss his cheek. “Thanks for caring so much about me, about her.”

“Sure,” he answers. “And don’t thank me. You’re my girl. This is what I do. I want to.”

“You’re coming to bed?”

“In a bit. You go on ahead.”

I give him a short hug and leave the room, painfully aware that his eyes are on me and they’re overflowing with pity.

I love him for caring so much, but there isn’t a damn thing he can do.

If Joy is alive and free, why hasn’t she reached out?