Page 62 of Final Proposal

I can’t. I can’t do this again. This constant, never-ending pain.

Why did you leave me?

I’ve done this before. I know the drill. The steps to go through. The words to say to pretend I’m okay. The pain that comes when the door closes . . . and everyone is gone. The feel of warm tears sliding down my cheeks and onto the pillow.

The pretending that everything is going to be okay . . . when you know your world is irrevocably, tragically changed.

I’ll never go through this again.

There’s no one left to lose.

Now, I’m truly alone.

Everyone I’ve ever loved has died.

Numb.

There are no other words to describe what I feel. I don’t even have the power to ask how. I feel . . .

Gray.

The world has been leeched of color without her to brighten it up.

Everyone leaves.

Loving me is simply not enough of a reason to stay.

Ellery

The next few days are complete chaos.

There’s a reason construction sites follow a set schedule of when specific trades perform what. Where their work falls in the scheme of things. If they’re on-site simultaneously, the site is too crowded. Accidents can happen.

But we’re not a normal site.

We have so many different phases going inside our little world. Some rooms are stripped to the studs while others are being overhauled and prepped for new paint and flooring.

All the trades are here, everywhere at once.

I welcome the chaos. The shouting that someone is in someone’s way. The questions about how the hell is this feasible. The cacophony of sound that pulls me here and there and everywhere.

And being busy is good. Not having a single second to think is wanted at this point in time because every time I have a free moment, my mind goes right back to him.

To Ford.

To a few nights ago. To the sensations he evoked and to the open-ended question he left me with. To the clarity it roused and the questions still unanswered.

Is that why I’ve been pulling a Ford? Avoiding him? Keeping my distance? Making sure we’re not alone together for more than a few supervised seconds around tradesmen?

And is that why he’s on the same page? Or at least I think he is, because every time I go to the kitchen area after everyone has left or flip the TV on for a few minutes of mindlessness, he suddenly needs to be anywhere but with me.

The irony is, he’s making himself scarce, which is only serving to make me want his company more.

And not just for sex, although I wouldn’t object to more of that once I straighten my own head out.

But more for his friendship. For our easy conversations that can be deep or shallow but that make me laugh and feel valued.

The absence only reinforces the fact that I’m often alone here. Lonely.