Feeling restless, I stay awake most of the night watching crap TV. Micaela never comes out of her room, but through the walls, I can hear her crying. I find myself wanting to go to her, hold her and tell her it’s going to be okay. But I don’t. The last person I tried to help, I only ended up hurting when I couldn’t be the person she needed me to be.
Micaela
I wake in the morning to an empty house. My first thought is Ryan must’ve left. But when I walk by the master bedroom I spot his duffle bag on the floor next to the dresser, so he must be around here somewhere. I pad out to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee, and while I’m there, make myself a piece of toast. I probably should’ve bought food to make meals with, but I wasn’t thinking. Plus, I don’t really know how to cook, so I’m not sure how well that would go over.
With a cup of coffee in one hand and my toast in the other, I head outside. It’s March in Venice Beach, so the weather can fluctuate, but today it’s warm, so I sit in the chair and watch the waves crash against the shore while I eat my breakfast and drink my coffee. I’m not sure where to go or what to do. I came here to try to move on. A change of scenery. To give my family a break from worrying. But I haven’t the slightest clue what the hell I’m supposed to do now, and so far all I’ve done is spent the night crying in my room.
It doesn’t matter whether I’m in Vegas or Venice, my heart still aches. The lump in my throat still remains. Every time I close my eyes I can still picture Ian’s lifeless body lying in the casket—my mom warned me not to look, but I had to see for myself he was really gone. In Venice, my plans are still shattered, my heart is still cracked and broken.
I move from the chair to the lounger, so I can lie down and get comfortable. I close my eyes and let the sun beat down on my face. The warmth a reminder that unlike Ian’s cold body buried six feet under, I’m still alive.
I spend the morning doing nothing. I try to write my letter to Ian, but, like always, nothing comes to me. I have no words, no thoughts, no feelings I want to write down. Anything I write will make Ian’s death a reality. My husband is dead and isn’t coming back. The fact is, it’s been the reality for the last fifteen months—I just haven’t wanted to admit it. Which is why I’m here. Only I seem to be doing the same thing here I was doing at home. Tears prick my lids, but I shut my eyes, forcing them back.
First step, I think to myself, no more crying. I can’t move forward if I keep crying.
Early afternoon, Ryan returns. He’s dressed in board shorts and flip-flops with his shirt flung over his shoulder. His short hair is wet, and his skin is bronzed from the sun. His body is ripped, from his strong muscular shoulders, to his chiseled chest, down to his defined six-pack abs. He has several tattoos covering his flesh.
I briefly chastise myself for ogling him, just like I did last night, but then I mentally roll my eyes. It’s not like I’m cheating on Ian, since he isn’t here. I might be stuck frozen in place, unable to move on, but I haven’t completely lost it. I know my husband is gone and isn’t coming back. I know eventually I will have to move on. One day, I imagine I’ll get married again, have a family. I’m only twenty years old. I have my entire life ahead of me—unlike Ian. But the thought of actually moving on makes my heart hurt. The idea of taking a step forward without Ian by my side is gut-wrenching. I didn’t want to have to move forward without him. I was supposed to walk with him, start a family with him. Create a life with him. Like always, my throat clogs with emotion and I have to force the sobs back. I told myself no more crying. I can’t move forward if I keep crying.
Instead, I focus on Ryan. He’s carrying my dad’s surfboard under his arm. He nods once toward me, and I force myself to smile at him. The smile feels foreign but also good. Like in my own way I just took a step forward. I can’t even remember the last time I smiled. So, yeah, I’m counting the smile as a step forward.
He steps onto the back patio and sets the board against the side of the house, then goes about rinsing the saltwater off his body using the outdoor shower. When he’s done, he grabs a towel and dries off.
He goes inside, and then a few minutes later, comes back out, dressed in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, the same flip-flops on his feet. I watch as he walks down the beach toward the pier, realizing he never said a single word to me. I wonder if maybe he’s afraid to talk to me, like he’s scared I might lose it on him. Or maybe he’s just trying to give me my space. Even though he’s been away overseas, he has to know my situation. His parents are best friends with my grandparents, and despite him always being gone, I know he’s close with his, just like I am with mine—or at least was, until Ian died and I pushed everyone away.
A little while later, I head inside to make myself something to eat for lunch. Ryan bought a shit load of food, but I don’t want to touch it without asking, so I stick to what I bought: a pint of ice cream and a bag of chips.
After eating enough so I’m no longer starving, I lie down for a nap, but since I haven’t really done anything, I’m not tired, so instead I just lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, allowing my mind to wander. When I can’t take it anymore, I climb out of bed to grab a book I brought. When I open the luggage, a small box catches my eye. I’m not sure why I packed it. Maybe I was afraid if I left it at home, it would feel like I was leaving Ian there as well. I open it up and sift through it—something I haven’t done since I filled it. It’s everything from Ian’s and my time together. Letters he wrote me, pictures of us, his wedding band. One day when I was having a bad moment, I put everything into the box so I wouldn’t have to see it. I told myself out of sight out of mind. Obviously that didn’t work.
Clutching a photo of us laughing and smiling to my chest, the tears fall like a waterfall. My heart aches for Ian, but I’m so tired of hurting, of feeling broken.
My eyes flicker to the fireplace, and for a brief second I consider tossing it all into there. Lighting it on fire, so I’m forced to move forward. But then I come to my senses. I would no doubt regret that and there would be no way of getting any of it back.
So, instead, I put the box back into my luggage and, taking the single photo of us, climb back into bed and cry myself to sleep. Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow I will try harder to move on.
“I’ll take that.” Ryan comes out of nowhere and plucks the joint I was bringing to my lips out of my fingers, and flicks it toward the sand. “And I’ll replace it with this.” He sets a deliciously-smelling plate of food in front of me. A scrambled egg omelet that looks like it’s mixed with ham, cheese, mushrooms, and peppers, home fries, perfectly cooked, and sliced mixed fruit.
Ryan disappears, then returns, juggling two glasses of orange juice in one hand and a plate of food for himself in the other. I grab the glasses from him and set them on the table.
“Shit, forgot the utensils,” he says, setting his plate down.
He comes back a few seconds later and sits, handing me a fork and knife.
“Wow, a man who can cook. What else can you do?”
“Smoking is not how you deal,” he says, ignoring my joke.