Finally, I gave up and checked my phone for any missed messages or emails. Nothing. In a few short hours, I would pull a black dress over my head and smooth it down over my curvy hips. I'd add a touch of volume to my shoulder-length dirty blonde hair and a layer of mascara above my emerald eyes. My father would try to hold himself together beside me, but deep down, in the depths of his heart, he would beg for mercy. Beg for the pain ripping through him, shattering him, to dissipate.
Except it wouldn't. Grief didn’t answer to any one person. It only submitted to time.
And now, not only would I be mourning the loss of my stepmother, but the idea of Callie lying in a morgue weighed heavily on my soul. Could a person manage this much grief? What was the tipping point when the spirit would simply say, “No, this is enough.”
I heard Jack rustling around in the kitchen downstairs, and the faint scent of bacon and eggs permeated the house. Glad I wasn't the only one awake before the sun shimmied above the horizon, I tossed a hoodie on and trudged down the stairs.
"Morning," Jack said as he tended to breakfast. "How did you sleep?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
"Me too," he said.
"Where's my mom?" I asked.
"She's still in bed. I told her I'd wake her when breakfast was ready.”
Jack and my mom met not too long after my parents divorced. During one summer, my mom decided we needed a vacation. Maybe it was because the weather had turned for the better or because she'd signed the papers. Either way, we packed our bags for a one-week stay at a beach resort in Florida.
I don't remember too much; after all, I was relatively young at the time. What I do remember is seeing pure magic before my eyes.
We went to dinner at the hotel's restaurant, which sat on a patio overlooking the ocean. The sun danced closer to the horizon while a soft, salty breeze ruffled my tendrils of curls. I colored on the children's menu with an assortment of crayons. My mother sipped from her wine glass, which she often referred to as adult apple juice, and stared out at sea.
After our dinner—I think I had chicken tenders—the restaurant manager sauntered over to check on us. When my mom's and Jack's eyes met for the first time, I swore I saw lightning flash between them. There'd been an immediate spark. As a young child, I recognized something stir between them.
I delighted in seeing my mom happy again, but also couldn't ignore the pang of panic inside my soul. If my mom started dating someone else, that meant my parents wouldn't get back together! For the rest of the trip, Jack managed to find us while we were on the beach, shopping at the local village or hanging out at the hotel's pool.
When my mom told me, several months later, that Jack was moving away from the beach to come live with us, it didn't come as a surprise. He was incredibly kind and generous. I hadn't minded at all, even if a small part of me still hoped my parents would rekindle their marriage.
It was Jack's love for my mom that ultimately set the bar high for when I was ready to fall for someone new. I wouldn't settle for anything less than what my parents had. And I didn't. I'd found Zac.
While he finished cooking breakfast, I set the kitchen table and instinctively looked for the Keurig and K-Cups. Jack must have noticed what I was doing and nodded toward the coffee maker.
"Really?" I asked, bemused.
He shrugged.
Jack and I sat down to eat once my mom claimed her usual seat at the kitchen table. I reveled in the meal before me. Somehow, Jack possessed the magic touch, and the eggs were perfectly fluffy, while the bacon wasn't too crispy and not too raw either. My favorite. Once he turned his back to make my mom’s plate, I poured a little vodka into my coffee.
"Thank you, Jack. This is amazing," I managed to say with a mouthful of eggs.
He held up his coffee mug and nodded, his mouth full, too. We devoured our plates while my mom told us about her bizarre dreams. I listened intently. However, jealousy wrapped itself around my mind. Drowsiness lingered around me, and I couldn't wait to nap later. Or stock up on more booze. The stash I brought with me was nearly depleted.
I still had a couple of hours before my presence was required at Carin’s funeral. What would I do until then? I couldn't sit around and wait for time to pass. I needed to go somewhere—anywhere. I excused myself from the table after briefly rinsing my dishes and putting them into the dishwasher. Jack dove in for seconds while my mom sat beside him shaking her head.
"I'll be back," I said.
"Where are you going?" my mom asked.
"Fresh air. A walk by the river?" I shrugged.
Keygate, mostly known for the historic river cutting the town in half, was just as much a part of my childhood as anything else. Tranquility bloomed there, as well as beautiful oak trees, which lined the length of the water, providing a sense of privacy from the street and shade from the sun.
I’d probably walked hundreds of miles beside it throughout the years. During fall, I would take a disposable camera, then a digital camera, once my mom bought me one for Christmas, and take pictures of the changing leaves. I'd spend hours gazing out at the expansive waterway. I was a bit of an odd kid, always thinking about the future and the troubles I might encounter along the way. I had friends in school and around the neighborhood, but I always felt left out. Even surrounded by dozens of my peers, I could have been invisible. However, it taught me the importance and necessity of being alone and depending on myself.
When a boy would disappoint me or cause a fit of sobs to shake me and shatter me, I'd come to the river and find peace in the solace of walking beside the water. In a way, the river was my friend. I could vent to her, and she wouldn't talk back or divulge my secrets to others. I liked to be alone, but along the river, I didn't have to feel alone.
Many times, my mom and I would take walks by the river together. Or ride bikes. Sometimes, we’d plan an extra-long bike ride and bring a picnic basket filled with snacks and sandwiches. Once we hit the halfway point, we'd find a spot to relax, indulge in our lunch, and lay under the warmth of the sun.
It took less than five minutes to arrive. Once I'd gotten out of my car, I realized I'd put on my nude ballet flats when I dressed. It didn't matter; I'd only be walking beside the water, not jogging.
Even though it was a weekday and well before nine in the morning, many locals were out and about, bicycling or walking their dogs. Anyone I passed waved and smiled hello. Small towns were like that—even if you didn’t know everyone, you acted as though you did. But you probably knew them all, regardless.
As the sun rose in the sky, I rolled up my sleeves due to the tickling of sweat upon my forehead. I continued to walk, and freedom rippled through me. I pulled a flask out of my back pocket and reveled in the liquid inside it. Zac’s initials were etched on the side, a gift I presented to him the day he made detective, only a few months after I did. I liked to remind him that I got there first, and it didn’t matter how much I teased him, he was still proud of my accomplishments. He was that kind of guy.
On one of our first dates, I tried to bail at the last minute. My hair wouldn’t cooperate; a zit threatened to pop on the tip of my nose, and I had a ton of studying to do. I texted Zac to let him know I couldn’t make it, but a few minutes later, a knock sounded on my dorm room’s door.