Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 90877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
“Don’t fix stuff that isn’t broken,” he used to say. “Just give it a good shine.”
I clicked on a couple of my social media sites before finally responding to the dating app message and solidifying plans.
Sounds good. Fuck, my hands were shaking. I was really doing this.
Couldn’t hurt. Besides, I didn’t have anyone to take care of but myself. At least Delaney had Grant, though I couldn’t imagine how difficult it must’ve been, raising him in the midst of so much grief. When the parents in the support group discussed their children, I vacillated between bitter resentment and relief. At least they had something to get them out of bed every morning. But I supposed it would also be a difficult reminder of the life you lost.
Carmen and I tried to have kids for years, but it never panned out. It was one of the ways she and Keisha connected, though for my sister, it was by choice. Same for marriage, and I respected her for it because she took a lot of flak for both.
Fostering Aaron, Carmen’s nephew, had been both a challenge and a complete joy. He’d even invited us to his high school graduation before he went off to college. When he’d made an appearance at Carmen’s funeral to offer condolences, I’d broken down in tears, and we’d promised to keep in touch. Now we texted each other every few weeks.
The sky was growing darker, so I went inside before the mosquitos got me. I turned on the lamp in the living room, glancing at the photo frame beside it. At Carmen’s mahogany skin that was darker than my copper tone, the straightened hairstyle she’d worn the last year of her life. My natural waves were softer because I was a cross between my Black mother and white father, whom I’d unfortunately never gotten to know, being too young when he passed to remember much about him.
Truth be told, I had trouble figuring out where my biracial ass fit half the time—in school and sometimes in life. It was easier as an adult, and society had progressed, at least in bigger towns like Cleveland, though it was still far from perfect. I didn’t know what it might’ve been like in the rural area where my dad was raised, and I didn’t plan on finding out. City life suited me just fine.
I scrolled to my text thread with Delaney. Should I tell him about the dating thing? Honestly, I was afraid of what he would think. What a lot of people would think.
How was the reunion? I texted instead.
Just as you’d imagine. Awkward but also pretty okay.
And Grant? He’d said his son was close to Rebecca’s parents.
He had fun with his cousins. Probably needed it more than me.
Maybe you both did.
Guess so.
I smiled to myself, glad it went well. I knew how tough it could be around family sometimes, especially those who thought it was time for you to move on. It was shortsighted but not surprising. Besides, lots of people did move on, some pretty quickly, and it was important not to pass judgment.
In fact, one man named Walter from our group got remarried to a woman who resembled his wife a little too closely only four months after her death. It was eerie, and we all knew it, given the looks around the room that day, but nobody said anything. Judy, our group therapist, had dived straight in, reiterating the stuff we were thinking. She asked what a new marriage meant to him, and he admitted he was crushingly lonely and wanted someone there to fill up the silence.
I got it. I really did.
But lo and behold, Walter announced a few months later that the marriage had fallen apart. He confessed he’d moved on too quickly and needed time to be alone. The therapist had worked with him through it, and each month he gave status updates on how his solo time was working for him. It was progress, and we all had a little of our own to share, no matter how small.
It was what made me return time and again—I felt like I belonged. But also because of Delaney. I felt connected to him most of all. Maybe because we were both around the same age, though he was three years older at forty-four, so I could make all the over-the-hill jokes I wanted.
But also, Delaney brought me relief in a way that surprised me. Sure, I had childhood friends, but this was someone who got it—got me. People could say they understood what a loss like ours was like, but they’d never lived it, and that had to be the reason why I connected so well with him.
Some people came into your life for reasons, or whatever that saying was, and I found it to be true. Whether we would stay in touch after either of us ended up being strong enough to leave the group was another question. But when I thought of not having contact with him anymore, it made me sad, maybe because it was hard to lose people, period.