Page 17 of Because of Blake

He nods and treks up the drive, using his footprints from earlier as a path.

As I wait, I stretch my back and shoulders. I’ll be sore tomorrow, butit’s worth it. Not only am I doing a nice thing for a nice neighbor, but I’m getting to spend more time with Blake. This isn’t a get-to-know-him-better-so-I-can-date-him sort of thing. More like an I-enjoy-his-company thing. He’s a sweet man, who happens to make me feel like a teenager with the way he looks at me, and I relish in the feeling. There’s no harm in it.

Is there?

Before I can decide, Oscar leaps into me, knocking me into the snow pile at the corner of the yard. I go butt first and sink all the way in so my arms are sticking up in the air. My feet come off the ground to put me in an exaggerated V. I’m completely stuck.

“Oh, shit! Oscar!” Blake shouts and rushes to my aid. “I’m so sorry, Maggie. Here.” He shucks his gloves and grips my ribs right under my armpits, pulling me out of my snow prison. “Are you okay?”

His hands linger on my ribs as he waits for my answer, and I swear his fingers press into me. Before I can think too hard on what it feels like being held by him, I process what happened and burst into laughter.

Blake’s expression moves from concern, to confusion, finally settling on amusement and he laughs with me. We spend several minutes like this, until my sides hurt. When our laughter quiets, our gazes meet. The delight in Blake’s melts away to something more serious, more intense, and my mouth runs dry as I realize his hands are still on me.

“I could use that water now,” I say quietly.

Thanksgiving comes and goes. It’s not the big family holiday it used to be. If I’m being honest, it never has been. The only family my kids have ever known to be around for holidays is my father-in-law, but with him and Charlie gone, it’s just us.

I don’t go all out like Charlie used to, either. Since I’ve been a vegetarian the majority of my life, I go to the deli and get some carved turkey for the kids, mashed potatoes, and all the other normal Thanksgiving sides, but I don’t bother cooking. It seems like a waste of time. There’s only three of us, and we’d end up throwing away a lot of it. Besides, I don’t know the first thing about cooking a turkey.

Thanksgiving may be a bit of a bummer, but the weeks leading up to Christmas are even worse. Heading into December, I find I’m falling into my habit of retreating inside myself. Christmas was Charlie’s favorite and he always decorated the house from top to bottom to the smallest detail. I haven’t put out the Christmas decorations since he died. It’s never felt right.

Holding my chin high, I tell myself this year will be different. I’m not going to hide and ignore the holidays like I have for the last three years. I’ve already started in the right direction by accepting an invitation to Joanna’s Christmas party.

Shit, that’s next weekend, isn’t it? Ugh.

A heaviness settles in my legs and I have to shake them to ease the feeling. I’m not big on parties, or get-togethers in general. Michelle has a holiday party every year, and as nice as it is to see old friends, I haven’t been able to go without Charlie. Too many questions. Too much pity in people’s eyes. I’ve already told the kids we’d go to Joanna’s and they seem excited about it.

I wonder if Blake will be there? The vice gripping my chest loosens, replaced by an airy feeling as I think about seeing him again, even if it will be at Joanna’s house. Normally, I’m ecstatic to escape the get-to-know-you questions and conversations, but with Blake Iwantto know more. I don’t know if I’m ready to tell him everything about my life, though.

I loathe getting to know people, because it forces me to relive the hardest parts of my life. The questions about where my husband is still hurt. The words never get any easier to say, but if I want to know more about Blake, I’ll have to share, too.

Keeping him in the dark won’t be an option for long as it’s already hard to do. All the butterflies, heated cheeks, and thigh clenching aside, Blake is easy to talk to. He has an understanding in his eyes, a warmth in his voice. It’s almost like my walls don’t exist when he’s around, and I’m beginning to think I like it.

I shake my head to clear the warm fuzzies from daydreaming about Blake. I’ve got work to do.

We’re in a new house, a new neighborhood, new schools, and we need a new start. My kids need me to be strong. They need to see me moving on with my life so they can move on with theirs. What better way for us to honor Charlie, than by decorating the way he always did?

Even if it is three years later.

While the kids are in school, I get in the crawlspace, my heart pounding in my chest, and find the Christmas totes. My shaking hand grips the handle of one and I close my eyes to focus on grounding myself.

I recall my therapist’s words at our last session six months ago.You can do this, Maggie. For yourself. For your kids.She was referencing the move, but the sentiment applies now, too.

Shit, I still haven’t made an appointment. Do I need to, though? My breathing techniques seem to be working since I haven’t had an actual panic attack since we moved. I’ve had a couple close calls, but nothing I haven’t been able to handle.

The tension in my rib cage eases, and I think about how I’m doing this for my kids. The image of their beaming faces as they enter the house decorated like a winter wonderland flashes behind my eyelids. It gives me a momentary burst of courage. I blink my eyes open and drop my gaze, finding a small puddle of water off to the side.

Uh oh. This can’t be good.I follow the pipes and I see the small leak happening right before my eyes.Crap.I guess the decorations will have to wait.

I move all the totes to the other side of the crawlspace, then go back upstairs to google “Handyman Littleton CO.” I get a bunch of ads, some Yelp reviews, and a couple local website suggestions. How do I know who’s good and who’s not?

I’ve never had to do this. At the old house, Michelle’s husband, Tom, took care of things for us, and if it was something out of his skill level, he knew who to call. How do I know which independent contractors are legit? Even a reputable chain could charge me an arm and a leg. I know that’s what reviews are for, but how do I know those aren’t friends of the guy?

I rub my temple as all these questions make my head spin. The barrage of options is daunting. I could call Michelle and ask who Tom uses, but I’m an adult. I can do this on my own.

What if I pick the wrong one, though? Who’s the right choice?

“Blake.” His name rolls off my lips in a whisper. He offered to help with repairs, but that was months ago. Does the offer still stand?