Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
"She's gone," I heard myself say, feeling the loss of it, the emptiness, the void that would always be in my life.
Who was I going to talk about men with?
Who was I going to spend holidays with?
Who was going to tell me that they saw through me, they knew I wasn't the bitter, guarded, smart-mouthed bitch I pretended to be?
Who was... God, who the hell did I have left? What the hell did I even have left?
"Lenny," Edison's voice called, reaching out to snag my chin when I didn't look at him. "I know you're hurting and confused and don't feel like it, but you need to eat something. Then you need to get into bed."
"I need to go online and figure out..."
Ugh.
I couldn't even say it.
It raked through my brain with ragged nails to even think it.
Make the arrangements.
For her funeral.
How could you even focus on something like that so soon?
How could I pick a casket?
How could I decide what she would want to be buried in?
"There will be time for that," Edison told me, reaching up to grab a blanket off the couch, draping it over me.
I liked that.
I was aware of it enough to appreciate how he didn't force me to grieve like he wanted me to, like it was acceptable to. If I needed to stare at the wall, he let me stare at the wall.
If I needed to sprawl on the floor clutching a teacup like a security blanket, he got down there with me, covered me up, and just let it be.
"Toast?" he asked, "Think bread is about all you keep in this place."
"There's ramen," I heard myself say as if from far away, hearing it like through a tunnel.
"Don't figure your stomach is up for that much MSG right now," he said, moving to stand. He came back a few minutes later, putting down a plate of two slices of bread, slightly browned - which was a miracle since my toaster generally offered two options, warm bread or charcoal bricks - and two bottles, one of gin, and one of iced tea. "Which one are you feeling?"
As an answer, I unscrewed the top of the iced tea, leaning awkwardly upon my forearm, chugging it half down, then reaching to fill the rest of it with the gin.
He took the bottle back when I was done, moving to put it back in the kitchen cabinet. "Just one," he told me. "Then toast and sleep. Don't drown it in alcohol. That never ends well."
I said nothing but I could see the merits to both ideas.
On one hand, oblivion. On the other, ending up like those pathetic saps at Meryl's who I always made fun of.
Then again, what the hell could it matter if I did?
I had no one left to matter to. No one was going to care if I fell into a bottle.
But even when I finished my drink, I didn't push up, go across the room, and fill it to the brim with something that could take the edge off the sharp corners of grief.
Maybe for the simple reason that I knew Edison was there, watching. He wouldn't stop me. He wasn't that kind. But somehow his possible disapproval kept my ass on the floor.
I pushed up to a seated position, reaching for a slice of toast even though the idea of food made the gin slosh around in my stomach. I managed about a slice before I gave up, pushing the plate away, pulling the blanket closer around myself as my hand stroked over the music box absentmindedly.
I hadn't opened it.
As odd as that was.
I had read her diary, but not opened her box to see what was inside.
I guess maybe the diary provided answers.
The music box didn't offer the same.
My finger snagged the indent in the wood, pulling upward.
The little ballerina popped up. There was no music. And she didn't dance.
She was more like a pretty guard dog, protecting Letha's little stash.
And what did she store here, in this box that meant the world to her?
A ring her father got her for her sixteenth birthday that she was always upset about because her fingers grew too fat to fit, but she couldn't have resized because of the inscription he had inside.
And that ring was sitting on a pile of pictures.
Printed from her phone. Endless selfies she conned me into over the years.
There were dozens of them.
The top one was the one from just days before she was so unhappy that she thought death was better than continuing to go on.
And I couldn't see it, not even now, not even knowing what I knew now about what had been happening, where her mind had been.
It wasn't there.
She was just Letha.
Smiling, brilliant, beautiful Letha.
She never smiled again.
She never would.
That was what did it, what broke the dam that had kept the tears at bay all day.