Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
My laugh is a tiny hitch. “A period?”
“Simple. Universal. I’ll know you’re head’s fucked and I’ll talk you through it.”
I nod unsure what to say. He turns on the tap. I slip on my shoes—yesterday’s expensive cruelty—and wobble, then catch myself. I hate them. I hate the way they make me walk like I’m someone and need attention.
When did I become that woman?
He notices. He always seems to notice the little things. “On the list,” he states without looking at me directly. “Sensible shoes.”
The words are so hilariously unsexy that I bark out a laugh. It shakes something loose; not grief, but something that tightens up inside me. “Copy that.” I head to his room where I change into the few things I was able to get from Brian’s. I don’t think it would be acceptable for me to wear his shirt and boxers out to a store. Even if they are truly better than a snuggly blanket in comforting me in this chaos.
“Yeah, darlin’.” He glances over his shoulder at the bedroom door, “headin’ out. You forget how to get here just tap home on the navigation screen in the Tahoe.”
The SUV is not new, not spotless, and yet, it feels perfect. It smells faintly like gasoline and pine, the floor mat on the driver’s side worn shiny under the pedals. The seat is set for someone broader than me; I scoot it forward until my knees are a comfortable bend. When the engine catches, the radio murmurs low. Not a curated playlist, just local FM station. The DJ’s accent is eastern Carolina twang laced in sweet honey and sunshine. It feels casual. I like casual, I’ve missed it.
I drive.
The town looks different from this height, in this car that no one looks at. In the Porsche, the world parted for me—respectful, resentful. In the SUV, I’m one more body moving from point A to point B, and invisibility slides over me like shade. I didn’t know I missed it until now.
I point myself toward places that sell the most obvious things: underwear, socks, jeans, T-shirts. Department store or big box? The thought hovers. Brian loved high-end; he wanted me to match the home, the car, the life. Twice a year we took a trip to Dubai just to make sure he was dressed in the best possible threads and I had to match even if I always felt like this was all over my head. The labels in my closet said too much about the entitlement I was living and being away from it, I feel like a damn fool.
There’s a weird kind of freedom in turning away from the mall that smells like perfume and hair products and stepping instead into the fluorescent lights of a Target.
The automatic doors whoosh. The air is too cold. The store whispers: everything you need is here, if you can stand up and keep making decisions.
I start with a basket. It’s symbolic—less daunting than a cart—and within five minutes it’s silly because the basket is cutting into my elbow as I juggle cotton briefs and sports bras and a three-pack of plain white tees.
Eventually, I swap for a cart and keep moving. Leggings, soft denim that doesn’t scream, a gray hoodie, a black one, two tank tops, a pajama set with tiny stars because the idea of having something of my own to sleep in that isn’t borrowed makes my ribs expand. Plus, how do I know Kellum doesn’t miss his shirt? It might be one of his favorites and I’m hogging it. On a middle aisle, a display of sneakers promises comfort. I try on a pair and almost cry at the simple, stupid mercy of walking without pain.
Toiletries next. The list grows itself: shampoo that smells like vanilla, conditioner to match, a box of bar soaps because they are cheaper, some tampons, pantyliners, a brush, plain hair ties, a good face wash that doesn’t require an instruction manual, moisturizer, mascara, and a cheap tinted lip balm.
A notebook finds me in the stationary aisle. Black cover, spiral spine, a pack of pens clipped to the front. On the next shelf, a literal list-making pad shouts GET IT DONE at the top of every page. I put that one back. My version of that phrase is sitting in Kellum’s kitchen drinking coffee as if it grew there. Just do the next thing.
I stall in handbags. My old one is beautiful and impractical, an art object with a handle. I run my fingertips over a simple canvas tote with a zipper and six pockets. Pockets. Toiletries, wallet, notebook, pen, phone. I drop it in the cart, not caring if it matches anything because matching shit isn’t a need right now. And I am definitely in need of all the things so I will have to make due.