Page 28 of Stay With Me

Apparently, I cried myself to sleep, because I’m roused by the rumble of a motor outside my bedroom window, and I awaken with the side of my face mashed into the plush carpeting. When I look at my alarm clock, more than an hour has passed. I scoot over to the windowsill and lift my head up just high enough to peek out the glass panes without being seen.

“What the hell?” I hiss.

I jump up and throw a hoodie on over my T-shirt, because I’m not about to put on a bra just to go handle this. Furious, I stomp down the stairs and race to the door. I slip on my slides and head outside. The glaring sun dares to shine brightly on a day I’m sinking in the depths of my grief, and I squint. The smell of fresh cut grass feeds my anger.

I walk right up to my interloper and tap him on the shoulder, startling him. The engine dies on the lawnmower and Charlie Fitzgerald turns around to face me.

“Christ, Em. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to sneak up on a man running power equipment?”

I cross my arms over my chest. “First of all, it’s a lawnmower. It’s not like you were operating a chainsaw. And second, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Charlie narrows his eyes at me, then looks around the yard. “Uh, is this a trick question, sunshine? I’m obviously mowing your grass.”

“Don’t be a smartass.Whyare you mowing my grass? I have two arms and two legs, so I can cut my own grass. I don’t need you to do this!”

He scrubs his hands over his face and sighs. “I know you can do this yourself. But you’re my friend and you’ve been through hell, so I’m just trying to help. I’m not good with words, but I can do manual labor. I feel useless because I don’t know the right things to say. So, please let me help in the only way I know how.”

God, he looks so acutely uncomfortable sharing that with me I forget about my emotional distress for a few seconds—just a few. I glare at him and speed-walk back to the house, saying nothing… to him, anyway. There are plenty of words flying around in my head.

I stop when I get into the foyer, grab my wallet off the stand near the door, and fish through it until I find some cash. Two twenties. Perfect. I angrily hurry back outside to Charlie, losing the element of surprise, since he’s facing my direction this time.

His eyes home in on me and he releases the lever on the mower, causing the engine to stutter to a stop again.

When I reach him, I slap my hand over his chest with the forty dollars in it.

“There, you want to do my grass? Then I’m paying you. I don’t need you doing something because you feel sorry for me!”

“Oh, no you don’t. Absolutely not.” Charlie steps back like my hand is burning him and the money drifts in the air until it lands on the ground. “I’m not taking your money, sunshine.”

“Yes, you are.” I rest my hands on my hips and position myself in his way, daring him with my eyes to challenge me.

“No. I’m. Not.” His matter-of-fact tone annoys me. But I also appreciate that he isn’t treating me with kid gloves.

Then, he has the actual gall to roll the lawnmower past me, start it, and continue on his merry mowing way.

I stand and watch him, in shock, while he completes two more rows. I think about keeping the fight up. Maybe going and lying on the ground in his path. But I’ve already used up all the energy I could muster and walking the ten feet to where he’s currently cutting would require too much. So, I lie down right where I’m at. Right in a patch of freshly cut grass and stare up at the sky.

* * *

CHARLIE

Out of my peripheral vision, I see Emily lie down on the grass, and though it worries me a little, at least she’s calm and safe. I get pissed when I glance at the cash on the ground near her, but then I remember the dark circles under her eyes—and the sadness in them—that even her anger couldn’t hide. My heart breaks, hating that I can’t fix this for her.

After I decide the best course of action is to keep working, I finish the rest of the front yard and then roll the mower back to my truck and lift it into the bed. I stand in the driveway and watch her for several seconds, then amble over, plop down supine next to her, and turn my head toward her.

She’s staring up at the sky while tears flow down her cheeks, not even attempting to wipe them.

I don’t know what to say, so I do the only thing I can think of and extend my arm out to the side, a silent invitation for her to come closer if she wants to—needs to. After a minute, she moves into the crook of my arm and rests her head on my chest, and I wrap my arms around her.

Then her silent crying turns to sobbing, her tears saturating my T-shirt and moistening my skin.

Neither of us speak, and I simply hold her as I let her cry it out. I’d be lying if I said I was only doing it for her. That’s the primary reason, but it’s one of the few times I’ve not felt helpless about what to do for her in the last few weeks. I wish I was better with words, but I’m not. At least I can hold her while she cries.

After about ten minutes, Emily’s weeping has slowed, and an embarrassingly thunderous growl erupts from my stomach. It’s followed by the most beautiful sound I’ve heard in weeks—Emily giggling.

“If you won’t let me pay you for doing the lawn, how about I heat you up some leftover beef stew? I made it yesterday but couldn’t eat much of it.” Her voice is soft, weary sounding, but at least it’s not laced with anger any longer.

“What makes you think I’m hungry?” My attempt at a joke does what I’d hoped it would and makes her chuckle again.

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