Page 5 of All the Broken Pieces: Vol. 3

Chapter 5

The situation with Tim is changing and morphing into something else. Somehow, I feel less lost when he’s around, less hopeless. For the past few years my life has been a free-fall and I’ve been braced for impact, anticipating the bottom. It’s funny, but no matter how low I sink, there always seems to be a deeper level of unhappiness. These thoughts won’t help me sleep. I turn over in my bed, tangling my ankles in the sheets again. Annoyed, I jerk back the covers and sit up, swing my legs over the side of the bed and rub my face.

“I should seriously buy a dog,” I mutter to myself, because Tim? He’s Zach’s brother. No. Dr. Patel said to fix that, see the words and strike them out.

I see the thought in my mind, picturing the letters: Tim is Zach’s brother.

Now, I correct it: Tim was Zach’s brother.

Groaning, I tug at my hair and scold myself. “Live in the present, Abby.”

Glancing sideways, I peek at the clock. 3:04am. Damn. The witching hour. No matter what I do, I wake up at this time every night. If I ever wake up at sunrise again, I’ll die of shock.

There are better things to do at 3am, but I can’t think of any. So I push off the bed and pad across the room, shove my feet into a pair of slippers, and head downstairs. That picture is burned into my mind, but Tim is right. There are only two scenarios—it’s Zach or it’s not. I need to see for myself that it’s not, because last time I saw that photograph I really thought it was him.

God, I wish Zara was here. She died a few months before her brother, in a car accident on Sunrise Highway. Her tiny Miata got caught under an eighteen-wheeler. Her final moments had to be terrifying. The funeral was a closed casket because of the wreck. Goosebumps spread over my arms at the memory. Zach’s voice comes back to me, tight and angry, as if he was responsible for her death. We all felt that way. Everywhere I walked around the funeral home over those couple of days, people were whispering -- if they’d only asked her to wait, to come over, to take the parkway—anything to save her from such a horrific end.

Zara and I met freshman year in college. We were roommates. Those were some of the happiest years of my life. All smiles, no regrets. Living life in the moment with no real worries. Then she became my sister when I married Zach. She was in my wedding all those years ago, and around the house every other day. She had a fiancé. Now she’s gone.

Zach is also gone. I have no one to talk to, no one to confide in and hash out the big picture. Zara would have a stroke if I told her I felt something for Tim. At least I think she would. She’d defend Zach. All that history. Even if it did turn rancid at the end. But, maybe not. Maybe she’d just want me to be happy. I’d want her to be happy. In love. Totally smitten.

I mutter to myself, “I wish you were here, Zara.”

I plop down in front of the computer in my tank top and panties. I ditched my shorts hours ago. It’s too hot. The blinds are closed and no one is here, so I could walk around naked and it wouldn’t matter. The screen glows softly as the computer wakes up. My fingers glide over the keyboard as I type in the URL and land on the one website I’m supposed to avoid. Facebook.

I scroll through posts of the Sabba family, Zach and Zara’s, Tim and Tara—my mother-in-law. Tim tried to keep me in their clan, but I felt too guilty. And Tara wanted to string me up for losing her son. She blames me. I blame me, so I didn’t argue it.

Dr. Patel said it’s survivor’s remorse, and that I’ll sabotage the rest of my life if I don’t move past it. Since Facebook tends to focus on the past, I’m not supposed to be poking around on here either. I’m super good at looking backward. It’s moving forward that’s the issue.

Old pictures of Zara pop up, but they’re nothing I haven’t seen before. I smile at one from this day nine years ago. She’s beaming, a huge smile, ear to ear as she holds up her birthday cake. I took that picture. The cake went flying shortly after this photo was taken. Some of it landed on me, the rest on Zach and Tim. Those two were always together back then. Roommates, like me and Zara.

More images of Zara and a few of Zach, but not the one I’m looking for, so I lean back in the chair and close my eyes. “What am I doing?”

I’m looking for new pictures of a dead man.

That sounds crazy, even to me.

Before I can think about the right way to structure that sentence and cross it out in my mind, my cell phone buzzes. It’s on the desk next to the monitor. I lift it.

TIM: U AWAKE?

ME: YUP.

TIM: I’M NOT.

That makes me grin.

ME: DORK.

TIM: WHAT’S YOUR LAST DAY OF WORK?

ME: FRIDAY—ASSUMING I CAN PACK UP MY CLASSROOM THIS WEEK.

TIM: K. ASK VI WHAT SHE THINKS ABOUT LEAVING ON MONDAY. LET ME KNOW TOMORROW. I’LL GRAB TICKETS.

I hesitate for a moment. Do I really want to do this? Run off with Tim? I half expect Vi to ditch us out of awkwardness. And because she sorta hates Tim. Something about Nonni and Zara, which makes no sense, led her to believe that Tim is a bad guy. I don’t see it. He’s suffering. Like me.

I lift my phone and type my reply.

ME: KK.