Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
I pick my way through the tables and smile at a few regular customers, but don’t stop. The phone vibrates in my purse, and I know it’s my friend Hendrix wondering where I am. I reach for my cell to reassure her I’m coming, but my steps falter midstride and I stand paralyzed in the empty corridor. To anyone else, it’s just a stretch of hardwood flooring, the wide planks dark and polished, but my mind’s eye superimposes an old stain spreading beneath my Nikes. And even though the floor has long since been scrubbed clean, I still see my sorrow embedded in the woodgrain. For months I couldn’t walk through this place without my breath growing short and my head spinning. My pain was plastered in these walls. My ghosts and grief gathered around these tables. A knot of anxiety burgeons in my belly, and panic strangles me so tightly I can barely breathe, but I do what my therapist taught me.
Deep breath in, slow breath out.
Deep breath in, slow breath out.
At first I can only manage tiny sips of air and my head spins, but each breath deepens, lengthens, deploys life-giving calm to my tingling extremities. Repeating that cycle a few times slows my heartbeat and loosens the band manacling my throat. I’ve exorcized a lot of my demons. Not all, but enough to at least walk into Grits without running right back out. I’m ready to reclaim the space that loss and shit luck tried to take from me.
When I open my eyes, it’s just a floor, polished to a high shine. There was a time I would have fallen over that cliff, breath-deprived and panicked, and let my demons chase me from this place I love so much. A tiny smile crooks the corner of my mouth and I take one step and then another.
So this is what getting better feels like.
Headed for the office, I pass the clamor of the kitchen. The clang of pots, the tantalizing scents, the raucous laughter and raised voices drift from the space that had always been Byrd’s domain. I offer a quick wave to the crew as I stride toward the office.
“Private” is discreetly sketched into the gold plate on the office door. I walk in, closing the door behind me. Josiah is a man of order and discipline, and the office reflects that. When we shared this space, it was never this orderly. My side of our bedroom always looked like a natural disaster, while his side looked like…well, like this. Even though I’m getting back into the swing of things here at the restaurant, I haven’t been using the office. And it shows.
The desk is clear, except for a few papers sorted into neat piles, edges lined up just so. Not a speck of dust would dare reside on any of the shiny surfaces. Josiah would be pulling his hair out if he saw our bedroom right now. I’m not one of those people who make the bed every morning. I mean, no one’s in my room all day and I’m just climbing right back in at night. I like my bed waiting for me all rumpled like it was when I crawled out of it. Josiah? Sheets tucked tight like a can of sardines, corners sharp as a Swiss Army knife. He’s one of those people who actually knows how to fold a fitted sheet into a tiny square.
Freak.
I walk into the en suite bathroom, shut the door, flop onto the closed seat of the toilet.
And sit.
Life comes at us fast. Responsibilities, kids, opportunities—it all rushes at us with projectile force. With all the things flying my way, I’ve learned to stop and check for dents and bruises. I’ve been the walking wounded before with disastrous results. Now I always pause just one damn minute to make sure I’m actually okay. Sometimes I gotta have a seat on a toilet, hoarding breaths, surviving between seconds. For mere moments, insulated by thin walls and a closed door.
After a few restoring seconds of silence, I stand to peel off the day along with my jeans and T-shirt. I search under the sink, praying I’ll see the emergency deodorant I used to stash there.
“Yes!”
With a little sashay of my hips I apply the deodorant. My face is bare, so I pull out my “glam in minutes” kit and at least apply some coverage, color, and lashes. I washed my hair this morning, and the leave-in conditioner still tames my natural hair into a mostly curly, not-yet-frizzy, Afro-halo.
I may be winging it with my hair and makeup, but at least I know this dress is classy with a dash of freakum. Pink hibiscus flowers bloom across the emerald-green skirt and the bodice cups and molds my breasts like a lover. Not that I’ve had one of those since my divorce. I lift my arms, squinting into the bathroom mirror.