The long pause slams into me, stealing my breath as I wait for her confirmation.

“Mary and Luke are coming too. Neither of them has any family here,” she replies, biting her worried lip.

“And?” That single word whispered from my mouth overflows with equal parts desperation and hope, and I hate myself for even asking. But I have to know.

Pity washes over her face as her shoulders sag forward. “Mary said he may show up. She wasn’t sure, but seemed hopeful.”

My throat constricts with an onslaught of sobs, but I force them back, refusing to breakdown right here. “I’ll plan accordingly,” I respond curtly, and then press my lips in a tight line as I return to what I was doing.

Twenty-seven minutes later, once I’m back in the secure solitary of my own room, I cry my own Colorado River as I smoke the other half of my morning joint, unable to decide if I’ll kill him or kiss him if he shows up.

Trying not to try too hard is the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever tried to do.

I’ve pulled damn near every article of clothing out of my closet, torn as to whether or not to fix myself up—to look great and show him what he’s missing out on, or to come out in mismatched pajamas and be honest about what a disaster my life is after losing Caleb and him. Finally, I settle on a solid red, V-neck sweater and a pair of new skinny jeans I’d received from my parents this morning, hoping, if nothing else, they’ll know I'm appreciative of their gift. My hair goes in double braids and my makeup is light, just enough to bring a little life back into my face.

Once I’m satisfied with my appearance, I slowly make my way down the hall to check on the dishes I put in the oven before my shower, scared to death that one of the muffled voices I hear in the family room belongs to him. I’ve flip-flopped between the mindset of I hate Crew and I miss Crew at least more times than I can count since I found out he may be coming tonight, and at least a million things of what I want to say to him have flashed through my thoughts since I last saw him at Beckham’s apartment. But now that I know him being here is a real possibility, I can’t come up with anything that conveys my emotions toward him. I’m afraid ‘Fuck you, asshole I’m in love with’ isn’t a good opener at Christmas dinner.

After I pull a couple of the casserole dishes out onto the stovetop to cool and rearrange the remaining ones to finish cooking, I creep over to the arched doorway, and with a deep courage-seeking breath, I peek around the corner. Relief whooshes out of my lungs in a long exhale, but unexpected disappointment quickly begins to fill the void. I hate myself for that too.

For the rest of the night, my body is present physically, but my mind is lost in space. I hear the conversations surrounding me, enough so that I can throw out a somewhat relevant comment once in a while and everyone seems to think I’m paying attention, but truly, my thoughts are solely on the empty chair at the other end of the table.

I avoid eye contact with Mary at all costs throughout all of dinner. No one dares to mention Crew, as I’m pretty sure everyone thinks I’ll lose my shit if they do, and rightfully so, but on several occasions, Mary talks about things Caleb liked during the holidays. Her voice cracks each time she says his name, but the genuine smile on her face prevails as she does her best to remember the good times and to celebrate his life…just like the funeral officiant told us to do.

Fuck funerals.

The second I decide it’s no longer rude to excuse myself from the table, I do. I’m tired of listening to everyone’s great life news and how thankful they all are for their blessings. I should be happy for Nali, who got an internship at a nationally broadcasted Denver radio station, and I should commend Dakota for getting accepted to the Colorado School of Healing Arts so she can fulfill her dream to open a spa one day. Shit, I should probably even congratulate Mary and Luke for their engagement, despite the fact I do feel it’s a bit rushed and ill-timed.

But I don’t do any of that.

I’m so absorbed in my own thoughts spinning around in my head like an out-of-control tornado that I don’t realize Mary stands up from the table at the same time I do and follows me into the kitchen. Rinsing my plate, I turn to place it in the dishwasher, and I’m suddenly face-to-face with her, knowing I can no longer dodge the conversation I’ve been dreading all night.

“Can we take a walk, Hudson?” Her expression is soft and soothing, as are her words, and she offers a faint smile when I nod silently.

No one says anything to either of us as we pass by the dining room on our way to the foyer, but I feel their eyes following me until the door closes behind us. Zipping my jacket up to my chin, I stride forward in the days-old slush covering the front yard and blow out an icy breath that matches my current internal temperature.

The first few minutes she follows me, she remains quiet, and I’m not sure if she’s trying to figure out what to say or waiting for the right time to say whatever it is she wanted to discuss, but either way, I just want to get it over with. My heart may explode with anxiety at any moment.

“I talked to him,” she announces as we arrive at the greenhouses, the motion-detecting security lights illuminating the dark sky.

I hadn’t planned to end up here, but somehow my body instinctively led me to one of my safe places, and as I unlock the weed growing center, I’m glad I did. This conversation is going to require a joint.

Leading her inside, I flip on the fluorescent work-lights that hang over each row of plants, head straight to the curing area, and snip off a bud ready to be smoked. Methodically, I break up the pot, roll it into a skinny doobie, and light it, having still not responded to her statement about Crew.

“He reached out to me last Thursday,” she obviously realizes I’m not going to say anything, so she continues as I pull a long hit, “and we had a really good heart-to-heart. We both said a lot of things we needed to get off our chests, and we’re both trying to move forward…to put our lives back together in Caleb’s honor and memory.”

“That’s great, Mary,” I manage to say through a puff of smoke, but again, I refuse to meet her eyes. “Really, you both deserve to be happy. I hope you find whatever it is that gives that to you.”

“I hope we do too,” she whispers as she begins to stroll through the aisles, pausing every few feet to read the information on the cards labeling each grouping of plants, until she finally stops in front of my special babies. “Why don’t these have a card?”

Shaking my head, I snuff out the end of the joint, leaving the roach in the ashtray, and join her in the back corner. “It’s my latest project, a new strain I’ve been tinkering with,” I admit while reaching out to run my forefinger up and down one of the stems, not ready to tell her the story behind them. “But it’s got a long way to go before it’ll be ready to be smoked. These plants are only about six weeks old, so they’ve got at least another three to four months, possibly longer.”

I step back and return to my workstation, hoping she’ll do the same. I don’t want to talk about those plants any longer. Thankfully, she does.

“I really thought he’d come tonight. I know how he feels about you—” she begins to say, but I rudely cut her off, my bottled up emotions finally bursting out.

“How he feels about me?!” I screech as I snap my head in her direction. “I think he made it damn clear how he feels about me when he announced to you, me, and the rest of the coffee shop a couple of weeks ago that I was nothing more than a piece of ass to him.”

Anger burns hot in the tips of my ears and deep in my belly. “At first, I thought he was just letting off steam, pissed at the world for Caleb’s death, but after seeing him in bed with one of the waitresses he works with,” I cringe at the pain I feel when thinking about what he did, “I know that’s exactly what I was to him.”