JENNIE
Ever have a nagging feeling you don’t belong?
It’s not my attire. Nowhere to be on Fridays, I prefer minimal layers and letting the girls hang free. So the lack of pants and bra feels perfectly acceptable. I’m not even bothered by the red-rimmed eyes and extra-knotted bun I’m sporting.
It’s the apartment, so pristine, so put together. It’s nothing like my life, or my head.
The early morning sunshine is bright, bathing my new space in a soft glow, warming the hardwood planks beneath my bare feet. For a moment, I close my eyes and bask in the feeling, soaking in the warmth. I imagine it’s how it feels to be so loved by someone, like their arms are wrapped around you, lighting you from the inside out. For a moment, the sunshine feels like love, and I live in it. For a moment, I crave it.
I’m treading water today, and the culprit is the damn photo album on my kitchen island, the one I haven’t torn my gaze off since my birthday last week.
My eyes fall to the laugh lines that form creases around his wide smile and brilliant eyes. The longer I look at him, the dad I lost eight years ago today, the good-bye I never got to say, the harder it gets to breathe. My throat burns, and my teeth sink into my lower lip to still the tremor.
My hands shake as I turn away from the only face I want to see and simultaneously can’t bear to look at, and I look to the boxes. There are too many, stacked in towers and lining my living room. All I want to do is bury myself in this, unpacking, making myself at home. Yet the mundane task paired with the complex waves of grief I still don’t understand after all these years mix into an ugly, muddled rainbow. I don’t want to go through boxes. I don’t want to look at pictures and wish for more memories we’ll never make. I want to crawl back into bed, pull the covers over my head, and wake up tomorrow when this is all over.
Honestly? I’d take a smile too. Something soft and genuine to remind me there’s good in this world.
Coffee might be the next best thing, and the only thing I can easily access. So I pull on one of my brother’s hockey hoodies, stuff my feet into my UGGs, and trudge down the hall and into the elevator.
“Hold the elevator,” a voice calls, and I hammer the Close Door button fifty times before a heeled bootie shoves its way inside. “Hi, neighbor,” the pretty blonde from across the hall says with a broad, sparkling grin. “Thanks for waiting.”
“No problem.” My gaze coasts down, taking in her lavish trench coat, the red on the bottom of her booties.
Louboutins? You’ve got to be shitting me.
She peels off a red leather glove and offers her hand, revealing impeccably polished, glossy nails. “Emily.”
I slip my hand into hers, trying to hide the three-week-old DIY mani. “Jennie.”
“You’re Garrett’s friend.”
Nope. “And you’re his fuck buddy.”
She winks. “Only on days that end in Y.” The elevator stops, and Emily gives my forearm a tender squeeze. “I’m heading down to the parking garage, so I think this is where we say good-bye. So fun to meet you, Jennie. See you around.”
“Bye, Emma.”
She holds my gaze, sugary smile in place. “Emily. On the off chance you find yourself feeling forgetful again, you’ll likely hear Garrett calling it in the middle of the night.”
I stick my tongue out as she begins to disappear behind the closing doors, and she sticks hers out right back.
I mean, ew. Haven’t I already said I don’t want to know what that man sounds like when he comes? I fully plan on acting like I don’t know him when I see him around.
Like right now. Fuck.
“Jennie?”
My eyes lock with Garrett’s, and my body moves faster than it ever has, darting behind a wall. Forget about not wanting to see him exiting my new neighbor’s apartment, I don’t want him to see me when I look like this. I’ve already been on the phone with Carter once this morning, feeding him some bullshit about how fine I am. He didn’t buy it, and reluctantly agreed to pick me up later tonight for dinner instead of coming right over. I don’t need my appointed babysitter running and blabbing to my big brother that his little sister is a mess.
“Jennie?” Garrett calls again, closer. “Are you hiding? You know I saw you already, right?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, plastering myself to the wall. When a throat clears, I crack one lid.
The blond giant of a man stands in front of me, wearing the exact same hoodie as me, messy hair tucked beneath a ball cap, and a tray of hot drinks in his hands from the very café I’m heading to. As his gaze rakes over me, his concerned expression amplifies.
“Oh hey, Garrett. Didn’t see you there.” I straighten, tugging at the hem of my hoodie, and his eyes fall to my pajama pants. I gesture at the drinks and force a chuckle. “Did you get one for me?”
His stare holds mine, brows knitting, and I can hear the question on the tip of his tongue: Are you okay? He rethinks his words, probably because he’s terrified of me most days. “Uh, yeah, actually.” He tucks one drink into his elbow and holds out the remaining two. “These are for you.”
I stare at the drinks, then him. “What?”
“For you.”
“I don’t…I don’t understand.”
Garrett clears his throat into his arm. “I know last night was your first night, and I know today…” His eyes flicker as I swallow. “I know today might be a hard day, so I thought…maybe you could use some caffeine. But then I didn’t know if you even like coffee, so I got you a hot chocolate, too, just in case.” He places the tray in my hands and palms his nape. “There’s whipped cream on it.”
“That’s, um…”
“It’s no big deal. I was there, and I just thought…coffee.”
“I like coffee. And hot chocolate.” Damnit, I’ve got a lump in my throat. “Thank you, Garrett.”
His cheeks split with an explosive grin, lighting his whole face. It’s so addicting, I almost smile too. “Cool. Yeah, cool.” He flicks a hand through the air. “Yeah, no problem.”
Garrett ambles back to the lobby. With nowhere else to go, I trail along beside him.
“So, uh, where were you going?”
I hold up the drinks. “To get coffee.”
“In your pajamas?”
“Yeah, in my pajamas. You got a problem with that, buddy?”
Eyes wide, he wags his head. He hesitates in front of the elevator. “So now that you have your coffee, are you…?”
“Going back up.”
“Oh. Me too.” His eyes bounce from me to the elevator, back to me, then the floor, and when they land on me, silence stretches between us for a moment too long.
“I’m gonna take the stairs,” we both call out at the same time, bumping into each other as we turn toward the stair exit.
“You’re gonna walk up twenty-one floors?”
I prop a fist on my hip. “It’s called exercise. And you’re twenty-five floors up. What’s your excuse, big guy?”
“I’m scared of elevators,” he blurts, then flushes.
I hike a brow. “Really?”
“Yeah. Terrified.” He swallows, looking down the hall toward the stairs, and then does the oddest thing. “Oh, but actually…Ahhh.” He grabs his knee and groans. “I hurt my knee. Banged it when I was getting coffee.”
“Wow. Maybe you should take the elevator, then.”
“Might be for the best.” He rubs his knee and hisses in fake pain. “Think I could put my fear aside for one day.”
Is this really happening? Does he know he’s a shit actor?
The elevator opens when I press the button, and I shove him inside. “Thanks for the coffee. And Garrett?”
“Yeah?”
“Stick to your day job, big guy.”
The package in my hand feels insignificant next to the extravagant bouquet and extensive breakfast spread on the small table, signs that Carter’s already been here. I know Hank will appreciate the gesture anyway.
“Is that my favorite girl?”
I follow his tired voice, finding him in his rocking chair by the window.
“Just me.” I pop a kiss on his smiling cheek before taking a seat next to him. He’s got a great view, towering trees and green space, the peaks of the mountains not far off in the distance, decorating the North Vancouver skyline, even in the middle of this bleak fall.
“You are my favorite. And your mom. And Olivia. Love me some Cara too.”
“Hate to tell you, Hank, but favorite requires you to put one of us above the rest.”
He frowns. “You know I can’t. I love you all.”
“And we all love you.” I set the small box on the table, lifting the lid, and sweet cinnamon sugar infiltrates the air. “I brought you a cinnamon bun.”
His eyes glitter as I cut the sticky mess and lead one hand to the plate, the other to a fork. “You are my favorite.” He gestures behind us. “Carter made you a cappuccino before he left.”
I find the warm mug and wrap my hands around it, inhaling eagerly. I smile down at the cinnamon heart dusted over the foam. Carter’s all about big, loud gestures, but sometimes it’s these tiny, silent ones that warm me the most.
Mindless chatter fills the next few minutes, and when we take a moment to let the silence linger, Hank murmurs, “Eight years today.”
I sip my cappuccino, trying to drown the tightness in my throat. “Fifteen for you.”
He turns something between his fingers, and my heart lurches when I see the dainty gold band, the solitaire diamond set in the middle. “Miss my sweet Ireland every damn day.”
Hank entered our lives on the worst day of ours, and the anniversary of his. His wife, Ireland, had passed seven years to the day Dad died, and we have Hank—and Ireland—to thank for saving Carter’s life.
My brother was tasked with the onerous job of taking care of me and my mom that day. Impossible as it was, he did it effortlessly. My only memories revolve around the food he forced on us, the way he held us for hours on end while we thought our world was ending, carried Mom to bed when exhaustion finally took her, and laid with me until my eyes shut.
The next morning, I found him passed out on the living room couch, Hank and Dublin—who we didn’t know—sitting in the corner of the room. Hank told us how he’d dreamt of his late wife, urging him out of the house, and hours later came across Carter at a bar, a drunk, incoherent mess, and stopped him from driving home, the very action that had stolen our dad in the first place.
In stopping us from losing another piece of our family, Hank became part of it.
“Too long,” is the whisper that finally tumbles from my lips.
“But then every day without them is too long, isn’t it?”
My chest squeezes as I imagine my mom right now. I know what she’s doing: the same thing she does every year on this day. Wearing Dad’s favorite sweater because the smell of his cologne still clings to it, clutching the teddy bear he won her at the fair on their first date. Crying and alone, until her heart allows her to open a space big enough to let us back in. She’ll laugh and smile later today when we watch old home movies and tell stories, but she needs her space to grieve first.
“Living without your soul mate is something no one should ever have to do,” Hank murmurs. He pats my hand. “I know there’s something extra special waiting for you, Jennie. A love above all the rest. That’s what a soul mate is. Someone with smooth edges to soften our sharp ones. Someone who fits us so perfectly, vibrates on the same frequency, makes all our best parts shine. And together? Together, everything is exactly the way it’s meant to be.”
I force an eye roll, laughing off his promise. “I’m in no rush. I like being independent.”
“You can be independent and still share a life with someone. Your brother didn’t think he wanted to share his life, and now look at him. He has a wife with a beautiful soul, a baby on the way, and the man couldn’t be happier.”
“I know what you’re doing, old man, but I don’t need a boyfriend to make me happy.”
“I don’t think you do either. You make yourself happy all on your own. Now, do I think finding that person who makes all the dark spots a little bit brighter when they help you hold them might open you up to a side of this world you haven’t seen?” He shrugs. “Maybe.” A broad grin. “Do I think you’re a lot more like your brother than you let on to be, and you’re scared to let someone in because love can hurt? Absolutely.”
“Get outta here. I’m not scared.”
I am terrified.
It’s not that I don’t crave the intimacy, the person who’s always in your corner, who sees you with all your walls down and likes you even then. God, how I wouldn’t love to find someone who saw everything, accepted it all. Someone all my own to share the hard things with. Maybe then all those hard things would feel manageable.
Thing is, though, when your older brother is the captain of an NHL team, when everyone wants a slice of him, it’s impossible to separate the real from the fake. You wind up trudging too deep, left all on your own when you find you were merely a stepping stone, that nothing was ever real. And the ones you thought cared? When they blow your world up, they don’t even glance back at the rubble and chaos left by the explosion.
It’s safer to have a tight-knit circle, a few people you can trust wholeheartedly, than to recklessly let in anyone who asks, even if it is a little lonely sometimes.
Besides, who needs a boyfriend when you’ve got a drawer full of battery-powered ones? Men don’t vibrate, but dildos do.
When I make it back to the condo after lunch, I’m exhausted. I’ve fielded messages from Carter, Olivia, Cara, and Simon all morning, constantly checking up on me. It’s nice, but a lot.
I lock the door behind me. the sound of the dead bolt sliding into place echoing through my apartment before filling it with silence.
Silence makes my skin crawl. It leaves too much room for questions, for wandering thoughts, overthinking, and second-guessing.
My eyes catch that photo album, and I let it pull me forward until all I can see is his smiling face, until all that’s flowing through me is the desperate urge to feel the warmth of his love instead of this sudden overwhelming lack of strength, of control.
I cover the photo and close my eyes as my chest heaves, and for some reason, Garrett’s face floats through my mind. I see him standing there with coffee and hot chocolate, the smile he wore just for me, a real smile that made me feel warm. And now I feel cold again, alone, and I’m so fucking tired of being alone in my hardest moments.
Slowly, I spread my fingers, uncovering the picture a little at a time. That pink bunny stares up at me, the one clutched to my chest, and I know what I need. I know how to find some warmth again, to bring a little piece of home to me here.
With scissors, I slice through endless pieces of tape, box after box, ripping open the flaps, strewing the contents on the floor as I search for Princess Bubblegum, a piece of my dad that I can hold on to. The longer I look, the more my hands shake. The scissors break, and my chin trembles. Box after box yields the same heartbreaking result: no bunny.
I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head, willing away the weakness that comes in the form I hate most.
I rarely lose control. Of my body, my emotions. I avoid situations that bring pain or uncertainties. I should’ve stayed home; home where I’m surrounded by the memories, home with my mom. Instead, I’m here, alone.
I dump out the box before me, the one labeled bedroom, and when nothing pink falls out, I sink to my knees and let the tears come.
