Page 29 of Singled Out
“Then what?” she said.
“Then I drank a bottle of whiskey. I woke up the next afternoon on my kitchen floor. I don’t know why I was there instead of bed or what time I finished that bottle. I blacked out. Eventually, I got up, took acetaminophen, tried to shower all the shame and the sadness off me—didn’t work, in case you’re wondering—and drove out to my brother’s that evening as if I’d been at the seminar all day. Never told a soul I wasn’t.”
For the next few minutes, neither of us spoke. She kept her head resting on me as if what I’d just told her was the most normal thing in the world. I let myself soak up her touch, her support. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected, but it wasn’t such calm acceptance.
I freed my hand from hers and wrapped my arm around her, pulling her into my side, taking comfort in her companionship. Breathing in her scent.
“You definitely win for drama,” she finally said.
I chuckled. “Told you. I’m not proud of any of that. I can’t believe I told you.”
“I’m glad you did. It’s very un-Coach-Dawson-like. It makes you seem almost human.”
“I’m so fucking human.”
“So after the hangover, did anything get any easier?”
“No.”
“Thanks for shattering any hope I had,” she said dryly, drawing a smile from me.
“I guess it has gotten a little easier. I haven’t felt that horrible rage since then. But I still miss my cousin like crazy. Still worry every minute of the day I’m going to fuck up his kid.”
“You’re not going to fuck up his kid.”
She had no way of knowing that, but I didn’t argue. “Do you feel any better after underwater ugly crying?”
“No.” She straightened, removing her head from my shoulder, then dipping her hand in the water and trailing it back and forth. “I mean, that physical pressure that builds up in your chest and your throat?”
I nodded, very damn familiar with it.
“That feels less. A lot less. But other yucky thoughts surfaced.”
“Like what?” I asked, trying not to miss the weight of her head on my shoulder. Her closeness.
She kept moving her hand back and forth, back and forth. I watched it, mesmerized by the rhythm, the little bubbles that caught the moonlight.
“Naomi was so focused. Dedicated. She had goals and passions, and she was living those out. She literally died from doing something she loved, and though I don’t think she wanted to die in her thirties, I think—” Her voice cracked. She took her hand out of the water, pressed her fist to her mouth. “I think she’d not have regrets. She lived a life bursting with purpose, you know?”
“I understood that very well from your acceptance speech tonight.”
Harper nodded, her eyes closing. “She did so much. And I’ve been doing my best to take care of everything she left hanging. The auction. Her studio. The recognition tonight.”
“Even though I didn’t know her, I feel confident saying you did her proud, Harper.”
“I hope so.” She pressed her lips together, looking even more troubled. “But it occurred to me that, if I died tomorrow, there’d be nothing for anyone to take care of for me. Not. A. Thing. Because I don’t do anything meaningful. I’m just drifting along.”
“You can’t compare yourself to Naomi.”
“No. No one compares to Naomi. But I don’t have anything that drives me, that makes me excited to wake up in the morning. Like…coaching or teaching might be for you? Or maybe math?” She made a face.
“I do like all of those. I’m not sure I’d call myself excited to wake up in the morning because of them?—”
“You know what I mean. They give you purpose.”
“They do.”
“If you died tonight, God forbid, someone would have to teach your classes. Someone would have to coach your team. Someone would have to take care of your son.”