“Speaking of which, there’s something else, too,” he says, dropping his arms. “Something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”
I cock my head, unsure of how to answer.
“My therapist talks a lot about how part of moving on is being open to new possibilities,” he says. “You know, getting excited for the future again. Whatever, or whoever, that entails.”
“Okay,” I say, crossing my arms tight, trying to ignore the hopeful twinge in my chest. I can’t deny that I’ve thought about this: The possibility of Ben crawling back. Of apologizing for leaving me when I needed him the most.
But I can’t say that I blame him, either. Losing a child makes you lose a lot of things. Your rationality, your mind.
“I wanted you to know that I’m seeing someone.”
His words hit me like a stomach punch, swift and hard. I try to hide my shock, but I’m sure my expression shows it because he doesn’t wait for me to respond.
“It isn’t serious or anything. It’s new, just a few dates, but Savannah’s a small town, you know. People talk. I wanted you to hear it from me first.”
“Oh,” I finally manage, my nails squeezing into my sides, making it hurt. I imagine them leaving little crescent-shaped slits in my stomach like bite marks, sinking deep into my skin.
“I debated whether or not I should tell you today, but in the end … I don’t know,” he says, his hands punched into his pockets. “I didn’t want you to find out some other way.”
“It’s okay,” I say, still searching for words and unable to find them. “That’s … that’s okay. I mean, that’s good—for you, I guess. I’m glad you told me.”
“It is good,” he says. I can see his shoulders relax a bit, a long exhale, like the tension he had been holding there suddenly melted like wax. “Even if it doesn’t go anywhere, it’s been good for me. It’s been giving me hope, Izzy. And I want that for you, too.”
My ears burn at the familiar sound, Izzy, my old nickname on his lips suddenly rancid and wrong. What used to be so tender, full of longing and love, now feels like a punishment: something swathed in pity, like a lukewarm smile tossed across the room when someone you used to love catches you hanging out without them.
“I’ll see you tonight?” he asks, pulling a hand from his pocket and resting it on my shoulder.
I nod, smile, and watch as he pets Roscoe and makes his way toward the door, the whole time trying to ignore the tingling on my skin in the exact place where he touched me. When he closes the door behind him, I feel a slow stretch in my insides: the hollowness, growing, like a gaping black hole.
Then I dip my hand beneath my shirt, finding my necklace, and clutch the ring—Ben’s ring—that dangles from a chain fastened tightly around my throat.
CHAPTER SIX
My house reeks of Ben even after he’s left. His spiced aftershave and soapy hair gel; the sriracha turkey sandwich I know he ate in his car on the way over. I saw a dab of it on his shirt collar, a little red smear. A few years ago, I would have rolled my eyes at his clumsiness, licked my thumb and rubbed it against the stain. Maybe popped my finger into my mouth afterward, savoring the heat. A little tease before he left for work, ensuring that he would spend the day thinking of me.
Not anymore, though. Now, whenever I see him, I taste something metallic. Like sucking on pennies or licking a fresh wound, tasting blood on my tongue. It’s like my body is refusing to let me forget how deeply he hurt me. When he looks at me with those gentle eyes, soft and sweet like two dollops of whipped cream, I don’t melt the way I used to.
Instead, I harden.
“Losing a child is one of the most trying things a couple can go through,” Dr. Harris had said the first time I showed up to our appointment alone. I didn’t have to say anything; somehow, he just knew. Maybe he saw it coming. “Some make it out stronger, but most don’t make it out at all.”
I had wanted to fall into the category of some. Really, I did. Not even to make it out stronger—just to make it out alive. But that’s the thing about grief: There is no manual for it. There is no checklist outlining the optimal way to move through it and move on. Ben, always the realist, simply bowed his head and swam against the current. From day one, he leaned on statistics and facts, adjusting the probability of Mason’s return every single day until, finally, he decided it was time to stop swimming. We had lost the race, and it was time to admit defeat. It was time to rest. I knew it was painful for him. I knew it hurt. I knew it took everything in him to keep himself moving forward—and even more to force himself to stop—but I couldn’t even keep my head above water. From the very beginning, I was dragging him down, drowning him with me, and when he realized he couldn’t save us both, he decided to save himself.