I hurry inside, feeling nauseous. Not from the sight of the blood—I’m an ICU nurse. From an inundation of sorrow.

Missing Dad took years to get past. You stop thinking about him, forget his face, the sound of his voice. The feel of his stubble on my cheek as he gave me a peck. You feel guilty for forgetting, but the forgetting is often easier than the missing, and then you feel guilty for sort of wanting to forget.

So, I know how grief works. But this, with Adrian, it’s different.

I didn’t have him long enough.

We were just getting started.

I didn’t have long enough to accept that he was dying.

I find myself on the floor of the bathroom, in my wet bathing suit, my towel rucked under me, not crying just…drowning.

I can’t wallow in it anymore.

So, I force myself to take a long, hot shower. To actually style my hair. Put on a little makeup, just a touch, to conceal the hollows in my cheeks and the bags under my eyes. Get dressed in jeans and a sweater. I’m not sure where I’m going, but I get in my car and go anyway.

I end up exploring the little town, perusing touristy gift shops and the library, the general store. I walk around and smile at the locals who smile back and say hello and ask me how I am and even manage to sound like they actually care about the answer. They know I’m new, and they’re all curious, but no one asks me anything.

There’s a little cafe, a place that serves breakfast all day and specializes in chicken-fried steak with this incredible—and incredibly unhealthy, I’m sure—gravy that’s so thick you can stand a spoon up in it, and flaky, buttery biscuits. My nutrition has been whole foods, organic, artificial sweetener-free, all that stuff for years. I got into it while I was studying for my RN, having gained way more than the freshman fifteen and having not ever lost any of it. And then it became a way of life, and Adrian converted to it when we got married because it was just easier than trying to keep two separate kinds of food. But now? I just can’t bring myself to care. Maybe at some point I will, but right now, I just want to eat food that I didn’t make, and enjoy it. And hell, I need the calories anyway. I haven’t—and don’t dare—stepped on a scale, but I know I have to weigh less now than I did in junior high.

There’s a lot of staring by locals, a lot of open curiosity, but everyone is polite enough to keep it at merely open curiosity.

I look like hell, I know I do.