Page 77 of Four Letter Feelings

“You’re right. I want to cook dinner for you.”

She blinked at him slowly, as though she misheard, and blinked again. Shaking her head, she leaned closer to him. “What? I don’t think I heard you right.”

He chuckled. “I want to cook dinner for you,” he repeated, his mouth was so close to her ear he felt her shudder ever so slightly as he spoke. “Tomorrow night, my house.”

“Should we have the emergency services on standby, y’know, just in case?” Her laugh was light and nervous. “Or should I grab some Pepto… for the food poisoning?”

“You can joke all you like, but I’m cooking dinner for you tomorrow night and if you feel like it, you can stay for dessert.”

She rolled her eyes. “What’s all this in aid of?”

“I just want to say thank you, for helping me with Age. He has no idea you were there though and I really want to keep it that way, okay? He was embarrassed enough as it is, I don’t want to upset him.”

She nodded. “So, you really cook?” the glint in her eyes under the bar lighting made him hopeful that she’d consider his offer of dessert.

“Not for just anyone,” he answered. “But for you… for you I’ll cook, as a thank you. You like steak?”

She nodded.

“Allergies?”

She shook her head. “What can I bring?”

“Dessert.”

***

The next morning Jeremy went for a long run to clear his head. Excitement and nerves fluttered in his stomach. He was distracted and tripped over his own feet as he ran, causing him to stumble. Slowing to a jog, he gave himself a shake. He couldn’t quite figure out why he was so nervous. He’d dated women before, he’d even cooked for one, once. But with Chelsea, she’d blown him off so many times he felt that maybe this was the one shot he had at winning her over. He didn’t want to lay on the charm, he didn’t want to wow her with his bedroom skills, he wanted her to like him, for who he was, and maybe that’s what the difference was. Maybe that’s why he felt so incredibly nervous about their dinner.

After a shower and a trip to the grocery store, he paced the kitchen, buzzing with nervous energy. With AJ at his parents’ house there was no one to distract him or get him outside his own head. He texted a few friends to see if they wanted to play a game of pick-up basketball, or disc golf, but everyone was busy. He decided to distract himself by putting together a butternut squash soup as an impromptu appetizer to watch a movie. Flicking through the movie channels something caught his eye and he stopped, feeling a familiar feeling creeping up his spine. The movie was ‘Dirty Dancing’, his mom’s favorite and the very sight of it took Jeremy back to his childhood. His mom singing at his dad while his dad pretended to be completely disinterested until he burst into song.

He snapped off the TV with a quick press of the remote and dropped it onto the coffee table but he could feel that the damage had already been done and the first domino had been toppled. He sat on the edge of the sofa and tipped his head forward into his hands, lacing his fingers together behind his head. He tried to concentrate on his breathing, like Sheila had taught him to do in moments like this, where his grief blindsided him and he was forcibly dragged backwards into the shock, anger and overwhelming distress that his parents were gone.

For some reason, in the one moment you really wished you weren’t breathing at all, in the one moment it feels like you can’t ever breathe again, that’s when people tell you to focus on your breathing.

His chest hurt, his heart raced and sweat trickled down his back beneath his shirt. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes.

Focus on your breathing, he reminded himself, sternly as tears fell hard and fast.

It took a few minutes to quell the panic, but the agony and pain wouldn’t let go of his heart. He lay on the sofa and cried. He cried for all the things he’d said to his parents, and he cried for all the things he didn’t. He cried for what had happened to them, and he cried for what had happened to him. He cried until he couldn’t find any more tears to give and when the tears stopped falling, he sobbed, heaving, dry sobs into the cushion on the sofa and he begged for God to take away his pain. Then he begged God to give him his parents back, right before he told God he wasn’t even real and he didn’t believe in him anyway. More tears fell. He’d realized that the thing about grief was that it wasn’t linear. When you were in the depths of its grasp, or you could finally take a deep and cleansing breath, feeling like you could stand up and face the world again, you were often wrong. It could strike wherever, and whenever. He realized that it wasn’t a case of being done with grief, of drying your cheeks and standing up from the floor to face your new normal. In actual fact, it was more a case of grief needing to be done with you, and that was something you had no control over. A second wave hit, then a third and before long he’d cried himself into a restless sleep on the sofa.

When he woke, he felt hungover and dehydrated. He stood up from the sofa and found his soup burned to the bottom of the pot on the stove. Grateful he had managed to avoid burning the entire house down, he left the pot to steep while he took his second shower of the day in a bid to wash the anguish from his skin.

Glancing at the clock while he dried his hair and body he realized he didn’t have as long as he’d thought, but he still had enough time to get things ready in the kitchen. He stared at himself in the mirror before getting dressed, his eyes were bloodshot and heavy from crying, and he hoped they’d right themselves before Chelsea arrived. He didn’t want to see that sad look in her eyes, or feel her sympathy tonight. Tonight, he wanted to enjoy himself with her over a delicious meal.

And maybe even over the dining room table.

He grinned. The moment had passed and he was starting to feel his equilibrium return. Those moments were getting further apart in time, but they still had the ability to completely incapacitate him. He was starting to think that they wouldn’t ever stop, that those moments were just something he’d have to get used to coming up against for the rest of his life. That was the price of losing people you loved with all your heart.

***

He could tell she was nervous when she arrived. She handed over a cake box and a bottle of Moscato. He knew this was her favorite wine from all of the many Moscato wine memes she shared on her Facebook page.

“You bake?” he eyed her suspiciously.

“I can bake. This time, however, I did not bake. I bought.” She half shrugged, walking past him to open random cupboards until she found the glasses. “Wine?” she offered, holding up a glass in each hand.

“Sure.” He smiled and shook his head. “What’s the cake?”

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