Page 6 of Courage, Dear Heart

Jillian

I settleinto my bed with my own book. Opening it to a random page, I bring it to my face, then inhale the scent of paper and ink and ideas turned into words. One more thing to miss about my husband—how we read in bed together, often the same book and talking about it. Now the space where CJ should be next to me is as vast as the universe. It’s a black hole, empty and dark and lifeless.

His side of the bed forever untouched. Always neatly made. No dips on his pillow. No stray pencils and sketchbooks. No graphite stains left behind on the sheets by his careless fingers. All the little things that annoyed me about him—how his clothes were always stained with paint or how he never put the cap back on the toothpaste and lost socks faster than I could replace them. I never imagined I’d miss all of it so much.

I push the heel of my hand into the center of my chest, but no amount of pressure will dislodgethe deep ache inside.

I grab my phone and call Sheila. She answers on the first ring. “I was about to call you.”

I slide under the covers. “Because you’re tapping into that best-friend psychic connection and knew I wanted to talk to you?”

The low hum of a TV comes through the line. “Hmm, more like I’m bored and want to see if you have any good gossip, but let’s go with your version.”

I laugh, but the sound is hollow. I know why she’s checking on me, but neither of us wants to bring up the anniversary of the worst day of my life.

“Let me turn this TV off.” Silence fills the space for a moment. Sheila sighs. “How are you holding up, my friend?”

I drag in a breath. “It could be better.”

Her voice lowers. “Tell me.”

I try to swallow the thorns digging into my throat but fail. “Do you want to take Jamie to the park with me tomorrow? We can talk in person then.”

“Yes, of course. But do you want me to come over now? I can.”

“No. It’s late. Jamie’s sleeping and I’m in bed, too. I’m going to read for a little while and go to sleep.”

“Okay. Call me in the morning and we can plan when to meet.”

“Sounds good. Talk then.”

“Bye.”

I go back to the book, but after five minutes of reading the same paragraph over and over, I have no idea what I read. I set the book on the nightstand and turn off the light. Close my eyes, squeeze them in an attempt to stop the tears, but they come anyway. Sobs crawl up my chest, push into mythroat, and get stuck there. I can’t breathe. I gasp for air, but none enters my lungs. I’m choking on loss and grief.

I want to scream and rage and dig my nails into my own skin so I can have a different kind of pain. So I can scrape off this agony.

But I can’t.

I bury my face in the pillow and scream inside my head instead.

FIVE

Elliott

The scentof fresh-baked bread and pastries makes my mouth water as my gaze drifts around the large space—the well-organized chaos that’s the back of my sister’s bakery. Her employees working at different stations, some of them dancing along to the nineties’ mix playing through unseen speakers.

A balled-up paper towel hits me in the head.

My gaze finds Sabrina’s grinning face. I’m tempted to throw the paper ball back, but instead, I roll it back and forth between my fingers on the stainless-steel top of the corner working area we occupy. I know all too well my sister must always have the last word. Or throw.

Her grin fades. “You look distracted.”

“Do I?” Yeah, I probably do. Can’t stop thinking about the flower shop woman—Jillian—and what an idiot I was.

Her eyebrows narrow. “All right. Out with it.”

I rub my scruffy chin. It’s been days since I shaved. “I think I may have madea fool of myself.”

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