Page 164 of Until August
“No. I’ve got this. But can you grab the Christmas stuff in the garage? It’s up in that loft. The ladder comes down when you open the hatch.”
“Yeah, I know how it works,” he scoffed. “I used to help Cruz put all the lights on your house, you freak.”
He patted the top of my head on his way out of the kitchen like I was a pet dog.
When he was gone, I took a deep breath and continued packing.
The past few months had been rough. Going through Cruz’s things and donating them to charity had been hard.
I’d sold a lot of our furniture and given the rest away. I was starting over in a two-bedroom condo with a view of the ocean from the balcony. My main criteria for my house hunt were that it felt open and airy with good light and ocean views.
A fresh start, I guess.
But as I’d learned, grief is not linear. Sometimes I’d think I was doing fine, only for it hit me out of nowhere and knock all the breath out of me. Some days it was so physically painful that every part of my body hurt, and I was so tired I’d fall into bed and wake up the following day feeling like I hadn’t slept at all.
I started seeing a therapist in January, and it helped. But what I’d learned through my sessions was that I wasn’t only grieving the loss of Cruz, I was also mourning the loss of August.
A few weeks ago, my therapist asked a similar question to Luca: “What’s holding you back from being with August?”
“I don’t know,” I’d said. “I just feel like I’m still waiting for a sign.”
“From Cruz?”
“I guess so.”
It made no sense, but that was how it felt. Like I needed a sign from Cruz to know it was okay to be with someone else. And until I knew in my heart that I could give all of myself to August, it wouldn’t be fair to show up in his life again.
The sound of something crashing had me abandoning my packing and racing into the garage.
“Oh, my God, Luca. Are you okay?” I hurried to his side and knelt next to him. Oh, my God. Please, God, no. He was sprawled across the garage floor, and he wasn’t moving. I peered down at his face. “Luca!” Panic had my voice raising a few octaves higher. “Please talk to me. Are you okay?”
His eyes opened, and he blinked up at me.
“Luca,” I said softly. “Can you sit up?”
He batted my hands away when I tried to help and sat up on his own, rubbing the back of his head. “Fuck. What happened?”
“I don’t know. I heard a crash.” I looked over at the caddy filled with Christmas decorations turned upside down. Decorations and shards of glass from some smashed baubles were strewn across the concrete.
Luca got to his feet, weaving a little. “Whoa. Head rush.”
I grabbed his arm to ensure he didn’t go down again and guided him to a packed box that didn’t say Fragile on it. “Sit down.”
He did as I said, and I knelt before him, holding up two fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Four?” He shook his head. “Wait. No. Three?”
I went into full-blown panic mode. “We need to get you to the ER right now. Don’t move. I’ll pull my car in, and then I’ll help you—”
Luca laughed. “I was just messing with you. Two fingers. I’m fine. Just need a minute—”
“If you didn’t just fall off a ladder, I’d smack you upside the head. You can’t play around with something like that, Luca. What the hell. My husband died from a head injury,” I shouted.
“Jesus. Lower your voice.” He rubbed the back of his head. “You’re making my headache worse.”
“That was so mean.” Tears poured down my cheeks. “I was scared,” I whispered. “If anything happened to you….”
“Hey. Hey. I’m okay. I was just messing around. I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry, Nic. Jesus. Don’t cry.”
