Page 10 of I Will Always Love You (Maybe)

“I really don’t talk to people.”

Hmmm. Yet more that I want to unpack, but not sure if now’s the time. I take a bite into the dessert, and yep, I’m immediately thrown back to when Zoey and I were together. Zoey was the type of person who when she set her mind to something, it stuck. She loved baking and dreamed of opening a bakery. So, she followed through, and here we are—Zoey’s Bakery is heading into her eighth year of occupancy.

And yes, back then, I was so proud of her, and wanted her to follow her dreams. But I wanted so many other different things, too. I wanted to sell our belongings and backpack around Europe. I wanted to skydive off the Empire State Building, and go skiing in the Alps, and try new things, find something that gave me that spark, that zing, that I craved. But Zoey wanted to be here, in this life, in this town. She’s such a nice woman, and we had a lot of great years. But during our relationship, our communication was often just slightly off.

Colby and I polish off the tea and treats, chat about my job as a vet tech, how much I like the clinic, and talk about no matter how much my cousin Leo sometimes likes to get under my skin, it’s been nice to reconnect with him since moving back here last year. When I glance at my watch, I can’t believe over two hours have passed. I don’t even remember the last time I sat and talked with anyone for two hours.

“I really should get going before that dog that peed on me earlier today has its DNA seep into my skin.” I grin and help gather the plates and mugs and follow Colby to the kitchen. “Thank God for always having backup scrubs in my bag, but my body is begging for me to get in the shower.”

Colby scrunches her nose. “No doubt. You might have to do an extra loofah routine to really get it out,” she says and sets the plate in the sink. “Can we all just be thankful it wasn’t cat pee?”

I laugh. “So true.”

At the door, Colby thanks me again as I tug on my boots, then reaches for my jacket hanging next to hers at the door. She’s quiet as I get ready, standing with a flushed face, and the amber in her eyes glints under the flicker of the fireplace.

Oof. She’s really beautiful. She mentioned that she has no one at home, no one to call to help with Kona, but how does someone who’s so sweet and obviously caring have no one? Traumatic breakup of her own, I wonder?

Once I zip up and turn to leave, Colby reaches over and pulls me into a very surprising hug. A deep, hearty, heavy hug, and I can’t help but melt as I catch the scent of something soft and subtle on her neck, maybe lavender and sage. She has impossibly firm, strong arms, which carry a warmth to them that I haven’t felt in a very, very long time.

What’s happening here? I hug and touch people all the time. My dance troupe, friends I hang out with, Leo, the list goes on. I probably hug someone at least once a week. But this feels different. A spark flickers, igniting an electric charge, and when she pulls back, pink blooms across her face, and something in her eyes shifts.

I see it. Whatever just happened, she feels it, too.

And I fucking bolt.

FIVE

COLBY

During my recording sessions, there’s a little bit of a ritual that takes place. The moment my large, noise-cancelling headphones grip my ears, my brain flips a switch. Under the cushioning of the headphones, in front of the microphone, in my sound-filtering room, is where I feel the most connected to my past. The most alive version of myself, or at least who I was before all this happened, re-ignites.

But still, it’s not me, me. It’s Amelia.

After Amelia died, I was restless, missing her so much I could hardly breathe, and in a state of denial. I was desperate to do something to keep her memory alive. Back in the day, on the weekends, Amelia and I would scour the love-advice forums, read the expert opinions, and debate if their response sucked. After her death, to both pass the time and keep connected, I’d read those same relationship-advice columns, and picture how Amelia would respond. Thus, the inception of the podcast show began—a place that I could relive our weekend routine while channeling her energy.

Honestly, I didn’t think it would go anywhere. I made a couple of episodes a week, threw it online, and within a year it took on a life of its own. Maybe it’s a spirit wink from Amelia, who somehow got it on a few influencers’ radars. Maybe it’s good luck and good timing. Or maybe people were just like us and loved listening to these types of shows, and this one struck a chord with the audience.

As part of the recording ritual, I first record my digital journal entry for Amelia. I glance at Kona sleeping away at my feet, take a breath, and hit record.

“Good morning, Amelia. I know it’s been a few days, and I have a ton of things to catch you up on. So, my girl Kona is hurting. The procedure was so incredibly scary, and I wished you could’ve been there with me,” I say and rock back on the office chair. “When I took her into the clinic, I saw you. I mean, not you, obviously, but in a snap, I was right back to that hospital room. I was sitting on your bed pre-surgery, teasing you for generously tearing your rotator cuff so I could finally pitch that season in the softball league. I swear, it’s like I could see you giggling back at me, convincing me I didn’t suck as bad as I did, I could hear the doctor give us instructions for post-op, I could smell that almond scent of yours in your hair when I kissed your forehead. I swear, I was right fucking there, not in this Minnesota small-town vet clinic.”

After Amelia died, my family, her family, our close friends, literally everyone single person I encountered, tried to force me into counseling. When I refused, the secondary option was practically dragging me to support groups. But I didn’t want to engage. Even if someone had been through what I had, it was different; they couldn’t possibly understand. No one truly could understand this level of shattering pain.

And maybe it makes me sound like a selfish asshole, but the very last thing I wanted to do was to sit around and hear other people talk about their pain. I had more than enough of my own and no interest in piling more onto my already suffocating grief. After six months of near solitude, even more than I have now, they all staged a version of an intervention. My mom and dad, Amelia’s parents, and two of our former close friends, sat me down at the tensest dinner of all time, and tried to shake some sense into me. You need to journal, meditate, go to a priest, see a counselor, do something, they said.

But what I actually needed was to move far away from Florida, from everything that reminded me of Amelia, to a place that was so vastly different from the life Amelia and I had shared. Because then I could forget.

It didn’t work, of course. I never forgot. So begrudgingly, I started voice journaling. I record myself talking to Amelia, telling her about my day, about Kona, lamenting on about the Minnesota weather. It took a while. Months probably, maybe more, before it felt completely natural.

“But something kind of crazy happened…” I continue. “I think I met a friend? Well, maybe not friend since I basically screamed at her right in the middle of where she was working. But a good person. She came over here that night and helped me with Kona, and when she left, I gave her a hug.” There’s an underlying thread of guilt in my voice, even though I can hear Amelia absolving me. But Josie’s cute. Really cute. Smooth skin, great smile, that messy pink hair. And three nights ago, when she was here, I felt a bit of an awakening. Something in me stirred. Something I thought was dormant and buried, sparked alive.

“At your funeral, so many people hugged me, touched me, and I just couldn’t. I equated the hugs with the loss, and I never wanted to hug anyone again. And I haven’t. Not once. But then I hugged Josie, and I don’t know… It felt nice. Different somehow. Can there be hope attached to a hug? Is that too new age, and all ‘the universe is speaking to you’ or whatever crap that you used to talk about? You know, when I’d nod and smile, and pretend I understood what reading auras and seven chakras meant?” I sip from my coffee and move closer to the microphone. “And later that night we had a few text message exchanges.”

I glance down at my phone, where Josie’s texts from that night now live, asking how Kona was. She’d then followed up a few moments later saying that dog moms deserve bubble baths.

I’m not delusional or tiptoeing on the edge of sanity—I know my wife is dead, that she’s not here, and that my journaling is just a way I process things. But still, something prevents me from talking about all the other text messages we exchanged. Dozens and dozens of messages in the last three days. All in, it’s literally the most human contact I’ve had in years.

I scroll through them now to reread, starting with the one I sent after Josie told me to take a bath. That night, I’d hovered my thumbs above the screen for way too many moments when I pulled the plug and popped off a message.