Page 72 of Stuck-Up Big Shot
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Miles
If I hada choice between getting a root canal on an infected tooth without Novocain versus making the decision to end the life support that kept Granny alive, I would have chosen the dental procedure. It was one of the toughest choices I ever had to make, even with the letter stating no heroic measures already in Granny’s paperwork on file. So when she had the stroke that left her in a coma, there was nothing to do except wait it out.
Graham came to visit one of the days before Granny died, and I spilled out my tale of woe. I shared with him my loss and feelings of failure over my sister’s death. His sage advice, and subsequently the suggestion that I see a therapist, has started me down the right path.
“Bro, you’ve been through some pretty fucking tough times. Things I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy,” Graham had said, slapping me on the back of the shoulder. “I’m telling you, you’ve got to learn to let that shit go, otherwise it will eat you alive until you’re just a corpse inside. Don’t hold onto that baggage. Move on and forgive yourself. Otherwise, you’ll be a fucking bastard and pain in my ass forever.”
His counsel, along with the discussions with my grief therapist have helped me to see there’s light at the end of the tunnel. And now after my Granny’s death, I need to say goodbye to all the women that I’ve loved in my life and let the past go with them. And maybe, if I’m lucky, I can make amends with Sutton. The only non-familial woman I’ve loved.
Pulling into the parking lot at Mystic Lawns Cemetery, I get out of the car and head toward our family’s burial plots. Row upon row of headstones and placards greet me, some left unattended for years, and others cared for in a familiar and cherished manner.
Today is the anniversary of Melodie’s death. A date, along with her birthday, that has haunted me for years, marking a day of self-loathing and guilt over the part I played in Mel’s demise, overdose, and death.
My feet falter as I reach the row where my mother, Mel, and Granny’s newly earthed gravesite reside. There’s a fresh bouquet of flowers propped up against her headstone.
And there, sitting back on her heels, holding flowers and a photo in her hand, is Sutton.
Looking elegant, breathtakingly beautiful, and absolutely heartbroken.
“Button,” I murmur, taking a few steps inside the green walkway toward her.
Her brilliant emerald eyes sparkle up at in the sunlight, her hand shielding her from the bright rays, as she turns her head to peer up at me in surprise.
She sucks in a gasp, and her mouth drops open as I bend down and plant a knee at her side.
“Miles, I’m so sorry about Granny. Had I known what happened, I would’ve been there for you. I swear. You shouldn’t have gone through this alone.”
Without hesitation, Sutton moves onto her knees and throws her arms around my neck, pressing her warm face into the crook. I take advantage of the moment and slip my arms around her waist, gathering her close as we exchange silent condolences to one another, honoring the woman who meant something to us both.
When I finally pull back, I notice a strand of hair that’s escaped her ponytail, and I brush it off her face, tucking it behind her ear. My palm cups her cheek, retaining my physical contact with her, not wanting to let her go.
“What are you doing here?”
She sighs, sitting back again on her heels, flattening her palms on her thighs.
“Ben told me about your grandmother. And today is. . .”
“Mel’s anniversary.”
She nods, head hung low. “Yeah. I wanted to pay my respects and tell her that I still love her, and I’m sorry things turned out the way they did.”
Inhaling deeply, I let it out in a big gush of air. “It’s my fault she’s dead, Sutton. All my fault.”
Sutton gives me a defiant shake of her head. “You are not responsible, Miles. How could you be? We’ve talked about this before.”
“Listen, Button. Will you go get coffee with me? I’d like to talk.”
* * *
“You’re seeing a grief counselor?Oh, Miles. I’m so glad to hear that.”
I sit across the small outdoor cafe table from Sutton, sharing coffee and reminiscing when I tell her that due to her insistence, as well as Graham’s, I’ve finally begun talking to a therapist and working through my loss.
I chuckle and deadpan, “You’d think I’d just said I won the lottery.”
She peers through her lashes, blushing sweetly. “Talking about loss is difficult, but it gets easier, especially with a trained psychologist. And I’m happy that you found someone you can open up to and get things off your chest.”
