Alyssa

“One day isn't your whole life. A day is just a day.”
― Brigid Kemmerer, Letters to the Lost

“It seems to me, Annie, that you are just waiting for someone to give you permission to be yourself out loud.”
― Sarah Adams, Practice Makes Perfect

“We head to that corner of the basement. Rev straddles the weight bench and sits down while Declan sits on a yoga ball and leans against the corner. They fall into these positions so easily that I wonder if this is their space, the way Rowan and I claim her room or the plush couch in my basement.

I’m not a violent person, but hitting something sounds really good.

I draw back a hand and swing, throwing my whole body into it.

Ow. Ow. The bag swings slightly, but shock reverberates down my arm. I think I’ve dislocated every joint of every finger, but I can feel it, and it’s the first thing I’ve truly felt in weeks. It feels fantastic. I need one of these in my basement.

I grit my teeth and pull back my arm to do it again.

“Whoa.” A hand catches my arm in midswing.

I’m standing there, gasping, and Declan has a hold of my elbow. His eyebrows are way up.

“So . . . yeah,” he says. “I don’t want to be sexist here, but after the way you talk about cars, I didn’t expect you to throw a punch like that.”

I draw back and straighten, feeling foolish. “Sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for?” He looks at me like I’m crazy. “I just don’t want to watch you break a wrist.”

“Here.” Rev half stands, holding out a pair of black padded gloves. He’s pushed back the hood of his sweatshirt, and I wonder if he’s grown more comfortable around me—or if he’s just warm. “If you really want to beat on it, put on gloves”
― Brigid Kemmerer, Letters to the Lost

“Kristin comes down the stairs, and the pressure on my chest snaps. I take a moment to turn away, inhaling deeply, blinking away tears. She sets the plate on a table behind the couch, and half tiptoes back up the stairs.

Thank god. I don’t think I could have handled maternal attention right this second. My body feels like it’s on a hair trigger.

I need to get it together. This is why people avoid me. Someone asks if I want a drink and I have a panic attack.

“You’re okay.” Declan is beside me, and his voice is low and soft, the way it was in the foyer. He’s so hard all the time, and that softness takes me by surprise. I blink up at him.

“You’re okay,” he says again.

I like that, how he’s so sure. Not Are you okay? No question about it.

You’re okay.

He lifts one shoulder in a half shrug. “But if you’re going to lose it, this is a pretty safe place to fall apart.” He takes two cookies from the plate, then holds one out to me. “Here. Eat your feelings.”

I’m about to turn him down, but then I look at the cookie. I was expecting something basic, like sugar or chocolate chip. This looks like a miniature pie, and sugar glistens across the top. “What . . . is that?”

“Pecan pie cookies,” says Rev. He’s taken about five of them, and I think he might have shoved two in his mouth at once. “I could live on them for days.”

I take the one Declan offered and nibble a bit from the side. It is awesome.

I peer up at him sideways. “How did you know?”

He hesitates, but he doesn’t ask me what I mean. “I know the signs.”

“I’m going to get some sodas,” Rev says slowly, deliberately. “I’m going to bring you one. Blink once if that’s okay.”

I smile, but it feels watery around the edges. He’s teasing me, but it’s gentle teasing. Friendly. I blink once.

This is okay. I’m okay. Declan was right.

“Take it out on the punching bag,” calls Rev. “That’s what I do.”

My eyes go wide. “Really?”

“Do whatever you want,” says Declan. “As soon as we do anything meaningful, the baby will wake up.”

Rev returns with three sodas. “We’re doing something meaningful right now.”

“We are?” I say.

He meets my eyes. “Every moment is meaningful.”

The words could be cheesy—should be cheesy, in fact—but he says them with enough weight that I know he means them. I think of The Dark and all our talk of paths and loss and guilt.

Declan sighs and pops the cap on his soda. “This is where Rev starts to freak people out.”

“No,” I say, feeling like this afternoon could not be more surreal. Something about Rev’s statement steals some of my earlier guilt, to think that being here could carry as much weight as paying respects to my mother. I wish I knew how to tell whether this is a path I’m supposed to be on. “No, I like it. Can I really punch the bag?”

Rev shrugs and takes a sip of his soda. “It’s either that or we can break out the Play-Doh”
― Brigid Kemmerer, Letters to the Lost