Page 18 of Broken Vows

Me

No it’s okay.

Lilly:

Already putting my shoes on.

Fifteen minutes later, she’s at my door in pajama pants and an oversized sweater, holding a grocery bag. “I brought ice cream,” she announces, sweeping past me into the kitchen. “And those chocolate cookies you like from that bakery near my house.”

“Lil, you didn’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I did.” She opens cabinets, pulling out bowls with the familiarity of someone who’s spent countless hours in this kitchen. “Because that’s what best friends do. They show up with sugar and carbs when their person is hurting.”

I watch as she scoops generous portions of mint chocolate chip ice cream into bowls, adding cookies to the side. “Come on,” she says, handing me a bowl. “Let’s go sit.”

We settle on the couch, and I pull the throw blanket over both our laps.

“Want to talk about it?” she asks softly, tucking her feet under her.

I take a bite of ice cream, letting the cold numb my tongue. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Start anywhere. Start with right now.”

I stare into my bowl, watching the ice cream slowly melt. “Right now… right now, I keep thinking about stupid things. Like how I still make enough coffee for two people every morning. Or how I reach for his hand when I’m watching TV. Or how I…” My voice cracks. “How I still whisper ‘good night’ to his side of the bed, even though I know he’s not there.”

Lilly sets her bowl down and pulls me into a hug. The dam breaks, and suddenly I’m sobbing into her shoulder, ice cream forgotten on the coffee table.

“I don’t know who I am without him, Lil,” I choke out between sobs. “We’ve been together since high school. He’s all I know.”

“That’s not true,” she says firmly, pulling back to look at me. “You’re Alexis Kline. You’re an artist. You’re my best friend. You’re the person who helped me through my breakup with Dave, remember? You’re the one who organized that fundraiser for the animal shelter last year. You’re so many things that have nothing to do with being Jeremy’s wife.”

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “Then why do I feel so lost?”

“Because change is scary. Because endings hurt. Because you’re human.” She squeezes my hand. “But you’re not alone, okay? I’m right here.”

We sit in silence for a while, the ice cream melting forgotten. Outside, a car passes by, its headlights sweeping across the living room walls. I remember how Jeremy and I used to make shadow puppets in those lights, laughing like kids.

“He left his shirts,”

“What?”

“In the closet. He packed some clothes, but he left all his work shirts. The orange ones.” I laugh, but it comes out more like a sob. “I keep staring at them every time I open the closet,wondering if he’ll come back for them or if I’m supposed to pack them up or…”

“Oh, honey.” She pulls me close again. “You don’t have to figure that out right now. You don’t have to figure anything out right now.”

But I do. I have to figure out how to sleep alone, how to cook for one, how to exist in this house full of memories without drowning in them. I have to figure out who I am when I’m not part of “Jeremy and Alexis.”

“You know what you need?” she says, sitting up straight. “Your art room. When’s the last time you really painted?”

I think back. “Before… everything. I tried sketching that fruit bowl the other day, but…”

“Then that’s what we’re going to do. Right now.”

I blink at her. “It’s almost one in the morning.”

“So? Van Gogh did some of his best work at night.” She’s already standing, pulling me up with her. “Come on. You need to get these feelings out somehow, and ice cream can only do so much.”

She practically drags me to my art room, flipping on lights as we go. The room looks exactly as I left it days ago–the fruit bowl sketch abandoned on the desk, brushes soaking in murky water, canvas covered in half-formed ideas.

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