Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“More time with you?” I croaked out, tears leaking down my face.
She smiled sadly, shaking her head, then said, “If only I could.” She squeezed my hand as hard as she could, which wasn’t hard at all, then pointed to a blank book on her nightstand. “This is for you. So you don’t spend too much time thinking about me.”
“That won’t happen,” I said.
“But maybe it should.”
Then, she handed me a sheet of paper that was on top of the book. A beautiful, handwritten list of the Top Ten Things I Never Regretted, and she said, “Think about doing it, baby. Sooner rather than later.”
It was like she knew I’d drag my feet. She was right.
I stalled out. I didn’t do it. I didn’t even try. I let it sit in the blank book, undone, untackled. Unseen for most of two years.
I could blame the grief. I could blame my master’s degree. But the blame is all mine—I’m the kind of person who takes her time before she does something.
I started the list without Wesley, and truly, I should finish it on my own. That’s the point, after all. I know how to do things solo. I know how to be invisible. I spent most of my life that way, except for when I was with my aunt.
I swallow past the uncomfortable knot in my throat then breathe out hard, past the residual pain of missing. A pain that’s lessened over time but hasn’t fully abated.
Once the emotions subside enough, I peel myself off the mattress, trudge to the bathroom, and wash my face. When I’m makeup free, I rub in vitamin C serum and night cream till my face is shiny.
I look in the mirror. Square my shoulders. Smile. There. I can do this alone, just like I read books alone. Study alone.
I return to my room and take out the list once more, unfolding it. In the quiet of the house, I stare at the fourth item once again—eat dessert for breakfast. I can’t ask him to join me. Wesley is Mister Discipline. True, he had ice cream the night we met. But now that I’ve seen his meal plan and witnessed the way he treats his body like a temple, I can’t ask him to break his rules again. Besides, the list was supposed to help me get out of my comfort zone.
Wesley doesn’t need to change. I do.
I draw a deep breath and leave him a voice memo rather than writing a letter. “Hey! I was thinking about the list. You don’t have to do this. Any of this. Especially number four. It’s not fair for me to ask you. You don’t need to wake up early or anything. I can totally do it alone! Also, you really should let me pay rent, and if you don’t, I’m going to have to donate the money to your favorite animal rescue or something. Just watch me!” And so I don’t sound ungrateful, I add in a brighter, cheerier voice: “But seriously. Thank you for everything you’ve done so far.”
I hit send.
That’s a start. I can do more though. Just to show him I appreciate all he’s done, I get on my laptop and I hunt for tips on Wesley’s zombie video game. I dive into Reddit. I hunt through forums. I rappel through all sorts of tips on how to improve his gameplay. When I’m done, I send him a list of tips in bullet-point form on how to play better.
There.
It’s a small thing, but at least it’s a thing I’ve done for him—not the other way around.
23
TELL ME TO STOP
Josie
In the morning, I wake up to a handwritten note under the door.
You’re wrong.
Wes
A sob climbs up my throat, rising higher. I don’t even know why I’m on the verge of tears again. But maybe it’s the simplicity of his response.
Or the clarity.
Possibly, it’s the way he makes me feel okay about all my messy thoughts and chaotic emotions. The way he distills them into something clear. I want to say thank you in person. But it’s game day, and I don’t want to disturb his routine. He’ll have morning skate, then he’ll nap, then he’ll go back to the rink for warmups, and then it’s game time.
Good thing I know how to be quiet.
I’m a veritable cat as I get ready for my own workday. I zip up a black pencil skirt with a cherry print on it, toss on a red twinset sweater, then twist my hair into a bun, sliding a hairpin along the side to hold it in place. I slide on my glasses, then pull on pink fuzzy socks so I don’t make a sound as I move around the house to do my makeup and gather my things. I don’t even head into the kitchen to eat. The sound of the fridge opening might wake him. I’ll grab a bagel or a bar on the way to work, and I’ll send him a voice note once I go.