The world doesn’t stop turning when someone you love dies. Time carries on like nothing has changed, while you feel as if your entire world has stopped moving. It’s like you’re a character in a movie who stands frozen in the middle of a busy city sidewalk while people pass by in droves and move so quickly, they’re blurs.
That’s how being at the Peters’ annual family reunion feels. My parents are hosting it this year, which is one small miracle because the idea of traveling anywhere seems less than appealing. But my current predicament isn’t all that great either. I’m stuck on the patio, chatting with endless relatives who vacillate between giving me pitying stares while asking how I’m holding up and acting like nothing catastrophic happened to me this year—making endless small talk that means absolutely nothing like how the weather’s been lately or how so-and-so’s kid grew three inches this year. It’s like no one can decide if they’re worried about me or if they feel too awkward to bring up Robbie’s death. It’s exhausting. As people talk, my gaze slides across the grass, watching everyone interact with each other and feeling like an outsider even though I’m standing in the center of everything.
There are a few new babies, several babies who have grown to adorable energizer-bunny toddlers, and a handful of cousins missing because they went off to college early or have moved to new states for jobs or partners. Everyone’s life has moved forward, while I’ve spent the last eleven months crying in various rooms in my house, most recently on the floor of my dead husband’s closet while wrapped in his favorite flannel that no longer smells like him.
I take another sip of my Coke and continue people watching when my brother Cam comes up beside me and wraps his hand around my elbow, gently tugging me away from the conversation I wasn’t really participating in. With a nod to the group, he says, “Sorry, hope y’all don’t mind if I snag her for a minute.”
He pulls me to a pair of seats underneath Mom’s awning, and once we’re seated he takes a sip of his drink and says, “What’s up chicken butt? You look like you needed a rescue.”
I roll my eyes at the same time I roll my head his direction. Ignoring his last comment, I say, “Are you five?”
He smiles in that brotherly way that annoys me further. “I’m twenty-eight actually. Thanks for checking. I love how you care,” he says, placing his hand on his heart like he’s so touched as he clearly ignores my sarcasm.
“Whatever,” I mumble.
“Ah, I see what’s going on here,” he says, pointing his finger at me and making a zigzag shape as he gestures to my whole body.
“What’s that?” I ask, not at all interested in his antics. I can’t believe I let Mom convince me I needed to come today. As if I needed another reminder that the world keeps spinning.
“You’ve hit the anger stage.”
“The what?”
“The anger stage,” he says like I should know exactly what he’s talking about.
I raise my brows and tilt my head in a gesture implying he needs to elaborate because I have no idea what the hell he’s talking about.
“The five stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance,” he says as he counts off a finger for each stage.
“I’m not angry.” I don’t even bother to mention that grief doesn’t work in nice clean stages. You don’t simply move from one to the next. You go back and forth like a Ping-Pong ball being bounced around all the differing emotions.
“Coulda fooled me. You’re staring daggers at people.”
“I am not!”
“Sure are. Aunt Mae did a double take while she was chatting with me and then clutched her pearls and said she was going to steer clear of you.” He leans toward me conspiratorially. “She said you had angry eyes and if she wanted to deal with that then she’d still be married to her third husband.”
I glance around at the crowd of relatives, suddenly feeling insecure. Do I look angry?
Am I angry?
“Hey,” Cam says, his voice now serious as he places a hand on my arm. I stare at him, not really seeing him as the question rings in my head.
Am I angry?
Am I angry my husband died?
Am I angry I still go to bed crying more days than not?
Am I angry I feel like he abandoned me, as irrational as that is?
Am I angry I’ve had to completely reevaluate what my life is going to look like moving forward?
I am.
I am fucking angry. But that anger is such a complicated emotion—layered with sadness, desperation, fear, longing, and sometimes debilitating heartache that Robbie is missing all these moments with me.
I can feel the change in my body, the way my mouth droops and the tension around my eyes dissipates as I realize Cam’s right.
“Shit,” he says, his face blanching as he realizes he hit an exposed nerve. “Jo—”
“Cameron Peters, what did you do?” My mom’s voice breaks through the fog quickly filling my head and pulls my attention to the doorway where she stands with her hands on her hips and a scolding gaze directed toward my brother.
“Mom—”
“It wasn’t his fault,” I say. “He was just pointing out what’s apparently been obvious to everyone except me.”
My mom sits down in the loveseat across from us and leans forward. “Honey, there are no set rules for grief. Feel what you feel when you feel it. It’s okay.”
“It’s not. It’s not okay.” My shoulders sag as the weight of the last eleven months sits heavily on my shoulders. “I’m tired, Mom. I’m tired of feeling like this. Of feeling like I might be getting better one minute and then falling apart the next. And worst of all, I feel guilty for wanting to not miss him anymore. But I’m so exhausted all the time.”
I bury my face in my hands to hide the rush of tears building in my eyes. I’m so tired of crying, of mourning, of missing him. And that makes me feel like the worst kind of wife because I should miss him with every breath I take. Right?
The warmth of my mom’s soft hand on my arm causes me to drop my hands, letting her see all the turmoil I’m feeling so clearly on my face.
“Robbie wouldn’t want to see you suffer like this, Jo. He’d want you to live your life and be happy. It’s okay to let yourself be happy.”
“It doesn’t feel okay. It feels like moving on.”
She gives my arm a gentle squeeze, her eyes kind as she says softly, “Because it is.” Bending forward so I can’t avoid her gaze, she says, “It’s okay to move on, Jolie. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Her words crack something open inside of me and I get up, rushing to their upstairs bathroom where I know I won’t be disturbed. I barely get the door shut before the tears pour in torrents down my face. I take deep heaving breaths trying to find enough air to fill my deprived lungs, but there’s too much. Too much emotion. Too much feeling.
The door creaks open and then clicks shut right before I feel strong arms wrap around me.
“It’s okay. Let it out,” my dad says.
“I miss him so much,” I cry.
“I know you do, honey. I know you do.”
I don’t know how long we sit there on my parents’ bathroom floor while I cry and my dad holds me. By the time my tears finally subside and my heaving breaths have turned into small hiccups, I’m completely spent.
“I need to go home.”
My dad drops a kiss to the top of my head where it rests against his shoulder. “You’re gonna be okay, Jo.” There’s no doubt in his tone—he believes what he says.
I wish I could believe it too.
I put the car in park, but don’t get out. I stare vacantly at the daffodils I planted out front, their bright yellow seeming like such a happy color. I remember so vividly the conversation Robbie and I had about which plants would go in the garden. My gaze sweeps across the landscape of my front yard, seeing it all as if it’s not mine but belongs to someone else.
Once upon a time, this house was a dream come true. It checked all the boxes—safe neighborhood, great schools, and the perfect size for two people with room to grow once we started our family. It became the symbol of our life together, almost as much as the rings we wore on our left hands—the ring I still wear.
Now it’s a reminder of everything I’ve lost. It’s no longer my happy place.
Movement by the garage catches my eye, and I have to remind myself to breathe when I see Tristan walk out with the electric edger in hand. But it’s not the tool he’s carrying that surprises me. It’s his bare chest glistening with sweat, his tattoos vibrant against his tan skin, as he uses the back of his free hand to wipe the sweat from his brow.
Another quick glance at the yard and I realize he mowed for me. Come to think of it, I haven’t had to mow the yard once since Robbie died. I didn’t even think about it. Pulling my keys from the ignition, I get out of the car, my gaze locked on Tristan. The thud of my door closing causes him to turn in my direction, and I must be imagining it, but it looks like a slight blush stains his cheeks when he sees me.
I stop five feet away from him, his deep blue eyes watching my every move, but he remains silent.
“All this time…” I glance around the yard again and then look at him, shaking my head. “Have you been taking care of my yard this whole time?”
He nods, but still doesn’t speak.
“Why?” I choke out. My emotions are all over the place today, but for some reason I’m desperate to understand why he’s done this for me without telling me.
“You hate mowing the lawn.”
I do. But I didn’t realize he knew that.
“But it’s still my responsibility.”
He frowns and looks at me warily. “Are you mad?”
I look around the yard again, this time seeing all the work he’s likely put into its maintenance.
“No,” I say on an exhale. “In fact, I don’t really know how to thank you. I feel terrible I didn’t even notice this whole time.”
He drops his gaze to the ground, and I’d give anything to know what he’s thinking. Tristan’s never been a big talker, but moments like this I wish I could read his mind.
How many other things has he done for me that I haven’t noticed?
Does he make a habit of this? And if he does, how can I ever repay him for looking out for me? For taking something I’d deem as tedious completely off my plate?
“I’ll just finish up the edges and then get out of your hair,” he says.
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
His eyes shoot up to meet mine, something swirling in his beautiful blue gaze I can’t quite name.
“Do you want to stay for dinner?” I add.
“Sure,” he says, his eyes never leaving mine and making me feel like he sees so much more than everyone else sees.
I go inside to get the chicken that’s been marinating all day into the oven while Tris finishes the lawn. I can’t stop myself from watching him through the front window as I dry my hands and wait for the familiar ding of the oven timer. His muscles bunch and move under his tight skin, his physique more perfect than any man has a right to be. His broad shoulders narrow down to a trim waist, and I watch a rivulet of sweat drip down into the waistband of his pants.
I swallow hard and divert my gaze as guilt consumes me. What the fuck am I doing? Ogling my dead husband’s best friend? I move back to the kitchen, busying myself with mindless tasks until I hear the front door open and Tristan walks in, his shirt still hanging from his back pocket where he’s tucked it in and his torso bare and glistening.
“Mind if I wash up?”
I stare at him, my mouth gaping and my brain shorting out.
His brows furrow as he takes a step closer to me, and a whiff of his manly musky scent hits my nose, causing me to suck in a breath.
“Are you okay?” he asks, concern etched on his face.
I shake my head and try to break this stupid trance he’s put me under. Seriously, what the hell is going on?
“S-sorry.” I shake my head again, hoping the action will shake away the fogginess of my brain. “It’s been a rough day.”
It’s not technically a lie, but it doesn’t ease the ache my guilt has caused in my stomach.
“Go ahead and wash up. Dinner’s almost ready.”
He watches me cautiously for a beat before he nods his head like he’s convinced I’m okay.
That makes one of us.
When he leaves the room, I turn around and brace my hands against the sink, dropping my chin to my chest and taking huge, heaving breaths that are supposed to center me but still leave me feeling off-kilter. I turn on the cold water and splash some on my face, which does the trick. The chill of the water seems to douse the heat of my body and cool the flush on my cheeks.
I don’t know what the fuck that was, but it can’t ever happen again.