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Love could be loud and supernova hot, and something soothing and quiet, too.
I had the day to dick around, and I overdicked it.
My eyes immediately go to the bottom where it’s been signed: Salem Meridian—Wren’s middle and maiden name. A possessive urge tears through me. It’s the same spike of emotion that had me embarrassing us both at one of our town meetings last summer, when someone referred to her by her maiden name and I couldn’t stop myself from reminding them (and by extension the whole town) that she’s still a Byrd. We’ve been divorced for over four years, but her last name is still Byrd, so … she is still a Byrd.
There’s something so intimate about words on paper, inked by someone’s hand, isn’t there?
It’s like the old me is gone, but the new me hasn’t quite shown up yet, either, and I’m distressingly confused by it.
“You don’t put a burnt cake back in the oven,” I say aloud, an expression coined by my mom. All you can do is take away what you learned and begin again. Agonizing over it only wastes time and prolongs suffering.
“That was not a coven, Wren Salem. It was a holistic gardening group, and we were brewing herbal remedies.” “You were stirring a cauldron and chanting in unison while passing around an expertly rolled blunt.” “It was a spring simmer pot! And—” Another scoff. “And you had to be there to get it.” She shrugs.
“I fucking miss you.” I miss you, too sounds glib. You have been missing from me is more accurate. There’s a void where you lived in me.
They’re the kind of eyes you can get lost in and the kind you want to tell your secrets to because you know they’ll stay safely hidden.
“I felt happiness. It was just different.” “How?” She huffs out a frustrated breath. “I guess … Like feeling the sun shining through a window. It’s sunshine and it’s there and it’s warm, but it’s not the same as feeling it on my skin.”
What happened to not putting a burnt cake back in the oven?” “That’s cake, babe,” she says. “But think of all the things that only get better after they’ve been burnt.
