NICK
LAINE TRIES to smile as though everything is A-ok as I prepare dinner, but she’s thinking about Jane.
It’s a phenomenon I’m familiar with, once people find out about such a loss. One that has long since found me avoiding almost all mentions of my little girl’s name. It makes people feel awkward. Pity, sympathy… it’s a fine line between the two.
I don’t want either.
“It’s ok. You can talk about her,” I say as I peel the carrots.
She spins her empty juice class on the table top. “I just… I can’t imagine the pain…”
“Hopefully you won’t ever have to.” The peeler works so methodically. I lift my eyes from the growing pile of carrot sticks. “It was a long time ago.”
“Still,” she says. “It’s so horrible… it must’ve been…”
“Bad,” I say. “It was bad.”
I hope that will suffice. I have
