cursing his name with every other breath. And when I get mad as hell, I clean. I take out all my conflicting emotions on the tiles in my shower, nearly scrubbing the finish off them.
I vacuum until nearly midnight, to the point where I doubt there’s a single Pomeranian hair anywhere but on my dogs. Every dish gets washed to squeaky clean, my stove shines like glass, and by the time I sit down with my angry-weepy jar of peanut butter and a spoon, I think you could do surgery on my kitchen table.
I eat half the jar until the angry little demon in my belly is quieted, and then I curl up with Nut and Juice. I barely cry, but it doesn’t feel right going to sleep without having Connor’s arms around me.
I’m sure that I do fall asleep at some point, but it can’t be much more than a short nap before bad dreams have me up just after the crack of dawn. I can’t go back to sleep with the worry and nervous energy pulsing through my veins like I’ve got a Red Bull IV going, so instead of fighting it, I grab a granola bar and sit down behind my computer, pouring myself into my work.
Time crawls, but my fingers fly. By the time the sun sets, I’ve cranked my way through three whole chapters in record time. After stopping for a bowl of microwave ramen, I go back to work, only crashing out on the couch after Nut and Juice dramatically go to bed on their own at three in the morning.
By nine the same morning, I’m back up, back to writing. The only time I take breaks is to take Nut and Juice out to wee, and I spend most of that time looking at Connor’s house, his driveway. His truck is gone, the windows dark. Mostly, I know he’s gone because of the void I feel inside. It’s like my heart can feel that he’s too far away, wherever he’s gone to.
That’s my routine for five days. I’ve ignored Hilda’s calls, simply sending emails that I’m working, skipped a W3AS library session with the girls, and basically just kept my head stuck in the sand to write and then pop up every once in a while to check for Connor.
The only places I go to are the front yard for the boys, the bathroom to take care of myself, and the couch because I don’t want to sleep in my bed if I can’t have Connor. Oh, and the front door once to pay for pizza delivery since I can’t spare the attention or time to actually cook for myself.
The knock on the door doesn’t give me any hope, though. The melodic thunk-thunk-thunk isn’t Connor’s style. But I open the door, just in case.
It’s not Connor or another pizza delivery but my girls. W3AS.
“What are you—” I ask as Daysha reaches for a hug.
She instantly recoils, wincing and pinching her nose. “Damn, woman! You smell like sweaty feet!” She fans the air between us with her other hand, subtly pushing me back so the rest of the girls can come in. “What the hell have you been doing?”
Aleria doesn’t speak, just reaches into the organic hemp burlap tote that she uses as a purse. Out comes a bundle of green herbs, and she goes into my kitchen to look for a lighter.
“Aleria, what are you doing? I don’t want my house smelling like patchouli-perfumed skunks!” I call out, but Jasmine puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Uh-uh. Daysha’s right. This place smells. Bad. And so do you.” I turn my attention to her, ready to say something snappy, but Jasmine has the decency to soften the critique with a caring question. “Are you doing okay?” she asks.
“Fine,” I tell her.
In the corner of my eye, I see Becca happily playing with Nut and Juice, who are always excited to have human attention. She might also be sneaking them treats, but I do know that I’ve fed them, even if I haven’t taken care of myself much the last few days.
“It’s been days. How’s the book coming?” Daysha asks.
Aleria comes back in, waving her smudge bundle, which smells woodsy and floral and not at all unpleasant. Still, I go over and open a window.
“I haven’t showered, I’ve barely eaten, and my dogs are getting cabin fever,” I admit. “But I’m pouring myself into these pages and making progress.”