Me After You

  ME AFTER YOU

  by Mindy Hayes

  Me After You

  Copyright © 2013

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author except where permitted by law.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Mindy Hayes

  Cover image by Abbey Lane Photography

  Cover design by ©Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations

  Editor: Madison Seidler

  www.madisonseidler.com

  To my Poppy, for giving me hope

  PROLOGUE

  I STARE AT his casket, completely numb. I know I should feel something. My heart should be shattering, but the space where my heart should be is hollow. My chest rises and falls, but I don’t know what’s powering it. I haven’t been able to breathe for days. The air is locked in my lungs with no escape. How have I not suffocated?

  I don’t understand. Why is he in there? He’s supposed to be standing beside me. With me. He’s supposed to be holding my hand, comforting me the best way he knows how, with the brush of his thumb over mine. But no one takes my hand. No one says a word to me. They skirt the edges of my existence, as though sorrow were contagious.

  They told me it would be a closed casket. They couldn’t put him back together to make the man I know. The man I knew.

  Knew. I hate that word.

  I can’t even look at his perfect face one last time. The last image I have of him is not the way I want to remember him.

  Bloodied.

  Swollen.

  Broken.

  He wasn’t supposed to die yet. He wasn’t sick. He wasn’t old. It wasn’t his time. How could it have been his time? I don’t understand. Why was it his time?

  They lower him into the ground, and I hear an excruciating sound. It’s piercing. Guttural. Desperate. My hands cover my ears to block it out, but it doesn’t help. Not even a little bit. Please make it stop!

  Someone wraps strong arms around my body, struggling to hold me still, shushing gently in my ear. It’s then I realize it’s me.

  “Sawyer, breathe,” the voice soothes. I don’t know who it is. “C’mon, Soy. Breathe with me.” The voice is so calm. How can it be so calm? I can’t put a name to the person, but my brother is the only one that calls me Soy.

  I gasp for air that doesn’t exist. I keep screaming no, but no one asked me a question. Is that really going to be the last thing I say before he’s officially out of my sight? There’s a wet film over my eyes I can’t see through. I can’t see them lower the casket with my husband inside.

  “I love you, Grayson,” I choke. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  The voice softly repeats my name over and over, telling me to breathe. But I can’t. The emptiness strangles me.

  There’s nothing they can say. Nothing can calm me.

  He’s gone.

  Nothing else matters now.

  TWO MONTHS LATER

  SAWYER

  THERE’S A KNOCK at my bedroom door, but I don’t answer.

  I stare at the two-tone yellow wall of my childhood bedroom, white chair rail separating the pale yellow from the bright. I feel nothing when I look at the wall, so I continue. Feeling nothing is better than feeling everything. My body can’t handle feeling everything anymore.

  It’s been five years since I’ve been back here. When I left home, I promised myself I would never come back. I needed to create a new life away from Willowhaven, a place that didn’t include everything I couldn’t have. There were too many memories, too many raw wounds that only added to the already gaping void in my chest. But when plans fall apart, there’s only one place to start: square one. Plus, I didn’t have much of a choice. He didn’t give me much of a choice.

  Grayson and I weren’t saving. We didn’t get a chance to start. We were hugely in debt from his medical school loans. He was three and a half years in. We were so close to the end. So close to the pay off. We didn’t plan for this. Why would we? There was no way he could have known to stay away from the parking garage that night.

  There’s another knock.

  This town doesn’t feel like home anymore. Home is with Grayson. And I can’t go where Grayson went. No one will let me. So, I no longer have a home. I may have spent the first eighteen years of my life here, but I want to bury those eighteen years, bury the memories they hold. I’m damaged enough as it is. That’s what I am now, isn’t it? Damaged.

  The door creaks open. “Sweetie,” Mom speaks softly as she peeks around the door. I lay on my side, facing the wall, with the cream bedspread pulled up around me and a pillow clutched to my chest, blocking out the world the only way I can. My eyes stare at the buttery paint as it blurs in and out of focus.

  I’ve been home for five days, eight hours and thirty-seven minutes and haven’t moved from this spot. You’d think I would have lost track of time. But time doesn’t move quickly when every part of you aches. It lengthens, making minutes feel like hours and hours feel like days. Time drains you until you have nothing—nothing left to give.

  “Sweetie, it’s two in the afternoon. Do you think maybe you should eat something?” she asks. I hear the rasp in her voice as if she’s been crying.

  I don’t want to answer. The idea of letting her believe I’m still sleeping is so tempting, but I know that will only encourage her to come into the room and touch me. I don’t want to be touched. I want to be left alone. “I’m not hungry,” I mumble.

  “I know, but I’m worried about you. You didn’t eat yesterday. At least drink something. You need to put something in your body. I’m going to bring you some hot chocolate.”

  I don’t respond because I know she will do it whether or not I want her to. She won’t stop until I leave this room, and I don’t plan on leaving this room any time soon. If I lay here long enough maybe the ache will go away. Maybe my body will go numb.

  My heart pulses his name in rhythm with each beat. Grayson. It would be so much easier if I could breathe. Grayson. If someone could remove the vise latched onto my heart. Grayson. The pain is so consuming, so relentless. Grayson.

  It’s been sixty-one days since he was taken from me. The empty space next to me emphasizes his absence, emphasizing how alone I am in this foreign place. My hometown. Sixty-one days and not one day feels better than the last.

  My bedroom door opens, and she shuffles into my room. The mug of hot chocolate clinks as she sets it down on my nightstand. “I’m going to leave it here. Take little sips at least. I promise it will make you feel better.”

  The sweet chocolate smell wafts over to me. I bite the inside of my cheeks to keep in the whimper. She says nothing more, and when she’s gone the floodgates open. Of course she had to bring me hot chocolate.

  Four. That makes four jobs I’ve lost in the six months I’ve lived in Seattle. Whether it’s because of budget cuts or the economy or my attitude, they all found a reason to kick me out on my butt.

  As soon as I walk out from the restaurant where I lost my serving position, it starts to rain. Not a sprinkle, or a mist, but in buckets—a torrential downpour. Awesome.

  I scowl at the sky for choosing the perfect time to open up and cascade its troubles down on me. “I have enough of those in my life, thank you very much!” I almost shout when I’m startled.

  “You know, you really shouldn’t blame the weather.” I turn at the nearness of a new voice. “It’s just doing its job.”

  He stands about a foot taller than me, looking all
hipster in his black-rimmed glasses, plaid flannel button-down, and form fitted jeans. Completely the opposite of what I’m used to—which is exactly what I need.

  “Its job must be to ruin my day.”

  “So hostile toward the rain.” He smiles so easily, as if it’s a permanent fixture on his face. “You must not be from around here.” He holds his umbrella up to try and cover me as well, but it’s impossible to keep personal space under an umbrella, so I feel his warm breath on my face and take in the freshness of his scent, like newly cut grass.

  “No, I’m not.” I sigh. I obviously stick out like a sore thumb.

  “What brings you to Seattle?”

  I don’t want to tell this handsome stranger my life story. I want to create a new one—one that doesn’t include all of my losses. I chose to leave them behind. This is supposed to be a life that doesn’t include... I shove his name out of my mind.

  “A change,” I say, swiping the wet strands of hair from my eyes.

  “Change is good. I like change. I didn’t catch your name.”

  “I’m Sawyer. Sawyer Hartwell.”

  “Hi, Sawyer Hartwell from...”

  “Willowhaven.”

  He extends his hand to me. “I’m Grayson Jones from Seattle. How about a coffee or hot chocolate to warm you up from the weather’s cold shoulder?”

  I chuckle. “Hot chocolate?”

  “There are a surprising amount of people in this world who don’t drink coffee. On the off chance you were one of them, I thought I would leave the option open.”

  I allow myself a smile, and even if it’s only for a moment, I want to spend a little more time with him. Maybe it will numb the pain chasing me down thousands of miles from home.

  “Hot chocolate sounds great.”

  “She’s like a zombie, Phil. I don’t know how to make it stop.” I hear Mom and Dad talk quietly in the hallway outside my room. “It’s been almost a week, and I can’t get her out of that room.”

  “Nora, it’s going to take time. She needs to do this on her own. No one can force her to become herself again. She needs to rediscover that.”

  They must think all I do is sleep. I wish. When I sleep, Grayson is more than a memory. In my dreams, he’s there. He’s there, and he’s real, and we walk hand in hand into the sunset of our happily ever after with his dark-rimmed glasses perched perfectly on his nose. But most of the time sleep doesn’t come. It stays at bay, obscuring my only escape from the gnawing ache.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have convinced her to come home,” she lowers her voice more. “I know she left here for a reason, but I thought coming back would give her familiarity and support. She won’t even go outside and sit on the front porch, Phil. She can’t handle being here.”

  “She’ll get there, Nora. C’mere.”

  “I can’t lose my baby again.” I hear her muffled cries.

  “We won’t, honey. Not this time,” he tries to reassure her.

  But he’s lying. My heart will never be the same.

  DEAN

  I REALLY DON’T want to get out of bed this morning. My head’s killing me, but the garage can’t run itself. I groan as I drag myself out of bed. Nothing a little Tylenol and coffee can’t fix.

  My phone rings from on top of my nightstand, and I instantly know who it is.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” Lily says. I repeat it in my head right along with her because it’s the phrase she’s been waking me up with every day for the last year.

  “Morning.” I clear my throat as I sit on the edge of my bed, rubbing my hand down my face to wipe away the sleep.

  “You sound so sweet when you wake up with your gravelly voice.”

  I grunt, get out of bed, and head toward the bathroom. The hallway is too narrow. I feel my way along the wall to keep steady. I must have stood up too fast.

  “I won’t keep you. I just wanted to say have a great day and make sure we are still on for tonight. Dinner at my place?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be there around seven.” I pop a few Tylenol in my mouth and cup my hand under the faucet before bringing it to my lips to wash them down.

  “Perfect. Can’t wait! Love you.”

  “Ditto,” I reply and hit the end button. I set down my phone on the sink and feel an ache in my knuckles. Flexing my right hand, I look down at the scars on the creased skin of my fingers. There’s a scar for every one of my mistakes. I peer up at my bloodshot eyes in the mirror and wish I could go back to bed. Sleep wasn’t on my side last night. Not that it ever is, but it would be nice to get one good night’s rest every once and in a while. I don’t even know what a good night’s rest means.

  After I finish showering, I dig around my sock drawer for a fresh pair. My fingers graze over the small velvet box in the corner. I pick it up and spin it between my fingers before opening it. The single solitaire shimmers up at me. My lips turn up on one corner at the thought of her, and then I snap it shut before burying it again. I’d hate for Lily to find it now.

  When I’m done filling up my truck at the gas station, I head to Moment in Thyme to get my morning coffee. As soon as I walk in Haley offers a smile. “Hey, what can I get ya this morning, Dean?”

  “You should know this by now, Hales.” I lift a crooked smile.

  She pushes her red-framed glasses on top of her head, brushing her frizzy hair out of her face. “Yeah, but I like to think one of these times you’ll surprise me.”

  “I’m a creature of habit.” I shrug.

  She smirks, leaning against the counter, and points her pencil at me. “You know you could change it up every now and then. There are a ton of options.”

  “I prefer it black, but I can’t make it at home as good as this stuff.”

  She nods. “All right, all right. I’ll make an extra delicious cup just for you. Just give me a minute.”

  I stuff my hands in my pockets and wait beside the counter as she walks away.

  “…what happened to Sawyer’s husband?”

  My heart jolts in my chest. I haven’t heard her name in years. It plays in my mind like a broken record, but no one ever says her name anymore. Especially in front of me.

  “He was murdered,” a voice whispers behind me, but it’s such a loud whisper I’m almost positive the entire café heard her.

  “Sawyer Hartwell?” I hear disbelief in another’s voice.

  “Yes, Dotty. That’s what I said.”

  The air in my lungs is compressed. I can’t breathe. If I thought my headache was bad before…

  “Oh, that poor thing. How will she ever recover?”

  “You don’t ever recover from something like that.”

  And I hate the way she says it because it sounds so wrong, and yet so right.

  “Bless her heart. Do they know who did it?”

  “I’ve heard that it was a random act. I’m not sure if they found the suspect or not.”

  “What a wretched thing to happen.”

  I turn to see the women seated at a table behind me. “Nora says she can’t get her out of bed. The poor girl won’t eat. Been lying in that bed for almost a week straight, she said. Probably longer now. I haven’t talked to her since last week.”

  “Would you be able to get out of bed?”

  “No, I don’t suppose I would.”

  Ms. Dotty gets up to leave and sees me. Her hand darts to her chest in surprise. Busted. She forces a smile as if she doesn’t know I heard every bit of their conversation. “Oh, hello, Dean.”

  “Morning, Ms. Dotty,” I mutter after clearing my throat. The shock must be written all over my face as much as I try to hide it.

  Haley has apparently been repeating my name because she says it with more force than necessary. When I turn, her eyebrows are scrunched together in concern and she says, “Your coffee.” I take it from her hands, dropping some cash on the counter—who knows if it’s the right amount—and walk out as quickly as I can manage without actually running.

  I don’t want them to see me
lose it. My brain can’t decide what to process first. It spins around and around so fast I feel like it might burst into a million pieces.

  Sawyer is finally back.

  But her husband is gone. And this should alleviate the heaviness that has been weighing on me for years, but it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. The heaviness spreads completely through me as the painful realization sets in. Sawyer must be devastated. And there won’t be a thing I can do about it. She hates me.

  SAWYER

  I DON’T REALLY remember much about the funeral. Grayson’s parents and siblings took care of everything. Flashes of lilies and roses and photos and blurred faces flicker in my memory, but nothing sticks. It’s all a haze. My mind must be trying to protect me.

  Everyone tells you that a funeral will help give you closure. You’ll feel more at peace once it’s over, and you can begin the healing process, they say. It’s been over two months since the funeral, and I want to tell everyone they can shove their closure down their throats. The sadness never ends. I fear it will burrow into every nook of my heart and fester there forever.

  The problem is that I yearn for anger. Being angry at least brings out bearable feelings inside of me. Feelings I can fight and let out. Scream into a pillow, and I’ll feel some relief. Now, though, all I feel is sad—deep, dark sadness. The type of sadness that wakes me up at four in the morning and crushes my chest as if Goliath is standing on my heart, squeezing out tears I didn’t think I could possibly have left.

  I want it to end. I want some relief. I want to know that someday I’ll be okay.

  ***

  I’m preparing for the look I know my mom will give me when I walk into the kitchen the following week. She’s been bringing me food and setting it on my nightstand throughout the day, hoping I’ll eat a little bit of it. Eventually it crusts over and is thrown away. It’s been too hard to find an appetite.