Page 2 of Breaking Point

The anniversary of my mother’s death is always hard. My body remembers it better than I can. I knew the nightmares would start back up soon… but I always underestimate how much it affects me.

Calming down takes less than a minute. I feel my cat curl into a ball at the foot of my mattress. Chesna purrs quietly, and even in the dark, I can tell she’s agitated.

I reach for her but freeze when I hear footsteps outside my room. My heart hammers as I pad to the door, quietly flicking the lock. For a few moments, I’m quiet, listening despite my breath tearing in and out of me.

The floorboards creak again, but when rustling comes from the apartment hallway, my muscles relax.

It’s probably the neighbors, I reason and when Chesna’s eyes curiously reflect at me in the dark, I open my bedroom door and flick on the lights.

Empty.

There’s no one there, I tell myself. I check the hallway through the peephole, and when I see no one, I unlock the deadbolt to peek out.

Nobody, I confirm.

I pause when I find a bouquet of roses on the doormat. Recognition flickers through me. The crisp brown paper crinkles in my hands. As I find a single note tucked into the red blooms, I lock myself inside.

No return address, no signature. The same as the last three notes left in recent weeks. I make out the wordsAlways on my mindscrawled across the parchment.

Maybe they’re from an ex. An admirer. The thought still leaves me on edge. I toss the flowers out, casting the note aside, and I flip on the kitchen lights to make a cup of tea.

I’ll be up for hours anyways.

As I put the kettle on, I find myself staring at the loopy handwriting on the note.

It doesn’t matter, I tell myself, but I’m still compelled to walk to my room and dig into my nightstand for the other notes. I find three, rereading the round print:

A rose is only half as beautiful as you.

Thinking about you.

Do you think about me too?

The words make my stomach churn, but when the kettle whistles, I tear myself out of my thoughts. I shove the notes to the very back of the drawer, and with them, I bury my worries.

I stir honey into my mug, and while the tea cools, I sit at the kitchen island and dig my planner out of my bag to prepare for the day. I sigh with every box I check off my to-do list.

Chapter Two

Olivia

Grief eases with time. At least, that’s what people tell you. Yet even five years later, my mother’s loss still aches.

Grief comes and goes, I’ve learned. But it never eases. Barely getting a wink of sleep last night should be proof enough.

My vision blurs, and for a moment, I almost forget where I am. Reality slowly fades in: Flowers, candles, cream colored fabric draping over every table. Emily and Derek's big day.

Weddings can be absolute, unbridled chaos. Over the years, I’ve learned to plan for it. It’s part of what makes me so damn good at my job.

The venue is alight with glittering crystal chandeliers. A slight breeze flutters into the bridal suite through an open window, but it doesn’t stop the bead of sweat from rolling down my back. I lift my ringlets, pausing in the doorway as I reign in a breath.

It’s almost over.

I don’t hate weddings. The dresses, the decorating, the organization: It brings me joy. Comfort even. But today… Today just feels different. It’s about to be the happiest day of twopeople’s lives, and I can still barely manage a smile. I don’t allow myself to wonder why.

You know why,a part of me insists. I let my hair drop, and I stand a little straighter as I plaster on a smile.

I do a final sweep over the mountains of makeup and clothing strewn about the room before walking down for the ceremony… My eyes catch on the coral bouquet resting at the vanity. I curse, recognizing Emily’s arrangement of roses immediately. She must’ve forgotten it. I snatch it up and in my mad dash, I stumble into someone already crowding the hall.

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