26. Not Thinking Big Enough

CHAPTER 26

NOT THINKING BIG ENOUGH

ABBI

Dalton picks me up in a car that smells like roses. On the back seat waits a beautiful bouquet of multicolored flowers in a sturdy basket. I stare out the window at the overcast sky as he drives to the cemetery.

These past three years I've learned that grief is like a chronic disease. Some days are good days, and you barely think about it at all. But then there are the flare-ups, when you feel terrible and can’t imagine ever feeling happy again.

Today it hurts. A lot. And I can’t think of any reason why the pain should stop.

We arrive at her gravesite before I'm ready. Because I'll never be ready. And we climb out of Dalton’s car into an empty parking lot.

Last year the snow was knee deep. But today there’s only patchy snow and ice on the ground as we pick our way through the soggy, winter-brown grass.

This is a quiet little cemetery halfway between Burlington and Shelburne. But as I approach her headstone, I feel so much emptiness. My mother isn’t really here. She's gone from this world. And this plot of brown, snow-clotted earth—with a generous hunk of granite carved with her name—is just a place that we go to have somewhere to put our sadness .

We need this place, though. Especially today. I take the roses out of Dalton’s hands and place them carefully in front of the stone. They’re beautiful, but I don’t believe that she can actually see them.

Only Dalton and I can, as we shiver here under the winter sky, trying and failing to think of the right things to say to each other. I watch Dalton swipe a tear away, and I have to bear down to avoid my own from springing forth. If I cry right now, I might never stop.

It's excruciating. And yet I still see the point of this exercise. We either come here to purge ourselves of a small amount of our pain, or else we’ll drown in it alone. I don’t like it. But I understand it.

Next year, though, I probably won't be here. I'll be in an office somewhere in a distant city. Dalton will call me and tell me he delivered the roses. And I’ll thank him.

Dalton is a good man. He loved my mother. He saw the joy inside her. He used to take her dancing. He even tried to teach her to play golf, but she couldn’t seem to get the hang of it. So he switched her country club membership to “pool only” with a cheerful shrug.

I’m glad she had his love in her life, even if she was robbed of the years she deserved to enjoy it.

Mom, I guess you quit while you were ahead , I say inside my mind. But I’m taking a serious deduction from your score for that terrible dismount .

"Shall we?" Dalton says eventually, saving me from my awkward internal monologue.

“Yup.”

We traipse back to the luxury car with its leather seats and the radio tuned to Vermont Public Radio.

But the scent of roses lingers all the way back to town.

Dalton takes me to The Farmhouse on Bank Street for lunch, where I discover that I'm famished. I order the burger with bacon and an excruciatingly locavore salad, and eat everything on my plate.

My lunch companion has a crab cake and a craft beer. We are shoring ourselves up, I suppose. But after the plates are cleared away, our conversation is still flagging. I feel as hollow as the environmentally correct paper straw that I keep worrying with my fingers.

Then Dalton breaks the silence with small talk about Vermont Tartan. “Taft said he hired you for some extra part-time hours after your internship ended.”

“He did,” I agree. “I was happy to do it, and his recommendation will help me get a job. Hopefully.”

“He’ll give you a glowing recommendation. But I don't understand why you two aren’t going to work together after graduation.”

I feel too weary to explain all the ways that social media jobs can be a trap. I'd be stuck taking pictures of Taft’s dogs forever. “But it's such a small business,” I point out. “It's Taft and Connie's baby. There’s no room for me to do more than the social media stuff that they hate.”

"Well, I told Taft that he's not thinking big enough,” Dalton says. “Maybe they need someone like you to help them strategize for capturing a younger demographic."

"That's nice of you to say. But their daughter is coming aboard this summer, so they already have some new help.”

“Alexis?” Dalton looks surprised. “I hadn’t realized she was moving back to Vermont.”

“True story.” I’ve already met Alexis. She has two really cute toddlers and a perky outlook that is probably just what the business needs.

“Okay. Any other good job prospects?” Dalton asks.

“Let’s not make this day any more depressing than it already is.”

He shakes his head and gives me a smile. “All right. But if you need me to shake the trees at the country club, just say the word. Somebody will have something. Even if it’s just temporary.”

“I will absolutely keep that in mind,” I say. Although it would feel like a huge step backward if I end up doing the bookkeeping for one of Dalton’s doctor friends and picking up extra shifts at the Biscuit. I want a fresh start so badly.

“Some company is going to be very lucky to have you, Abbi. Just hang in there. And if you need to move back home after graduation, you know you could have your old room back.”

My eyes fly to his in surprise. I don’t even know what to say right now. Moving in with him is not an option. But it’s nice of him to think it is.

“Your mother isn’t here to look after you,” he says gently. “The least I can do for her is to make sure you’re okay.”

“Thank you,” I squeak. There’s a new lump in my throat now.

“I know you’d prefer to be independent. Lord knows Price doesn’t mind leaning on me a little. There’s no reason you shouldn’t do the same.”

I swallow hard. And I’m this close to telling him why I can’t live in a house where Price lives.

But then I remember what that would mean—driving a wedge between Dalton and his new wife. I know Dalton pretty well by now. If I were forceful, he’d listen. But then I’d have to follow through. Dalton would probably make us all sit down as a “family” and talk to Price about boundaries.

Some people never learn boundaries, though. Price is one of those people.

The best thing to do is to stay the course. There has to be a good job out there somewhere for me. There are still three months until graduation. I’ll find one.

I’ll have to.

The very next day I get a rejection letter for the competitive training program in New York. Then I get a rejection from one of the social media jobs too.

And since I’m already a little depressed, I sink further into sadness.

This happens every winter. It’s hard to keep my head above water during this time of year, with my mother’s death looming so large in my mind. I’ll never be able to look at the half-melted snowbanks without thinking about the day Dalton called me, voice shaking. There’s been an accident .

I’m not very good company. But since the playoffs are coming, Weston is super busy. We’re exchanging frequent texts and we speak occasionally on the phone. But we don’t manage to spend time together before Weston heads out on another road trip to play Boston College.

I could really use a little distraction. Even my shifts at the Biscuit feel extra long.

“You look tired. Are you okay?” Carly keeps asking me.

“Sure,” I respond. Because I will be eventually. At least I hope I will.

“We’re overdue for a girls’ night out,” she insists. “Get out your phone. When’s the next time neither of us is on shift here?”

The answer to that question does not improve my mood. We discover that our next opportunity to see each other outside work is three weeks out. “Better late than never, right?” she says. And we make a plan that’s practically a lifetime away.

The following week, table seventeen comes in for dinner right after practice. Weston gives me a big, happy smile. Even though Carly has their section tonight, I feel my mood lift just from seeing his face.

An hour later, hockey players start trickling out the door again. And Weston waves me over. “Hey, girly. Should I study at the bar and then walk you home?”

I check the time, and realize I don’t get off work for another two hours. “Didn’t you tell me you have a paper due tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” He makes a face. “Sad but true.”

“Go home,” I decide. “Write in peace. I’ll catch up with you this weekend.”

“About that,” he says. “My family is driving up Saturday for the Merrimack game. We’re eating out first. Want to come?”

“Sure,” I say immediately. “I haven’t been to a game all season.”

“Better late than never! I’ll text you the details.” He looks over both shoulders, scanning the room. And then he leans in and kisses me quickly. “Oops, I slipped. But Kippy isn’t here. Bye, baby.”

“Bye, Westie,” I say in a dreamy voice I haven’t used in a week.

Pleased with himself, he strides out.

Sending him off to study was the right thing to do. I’m awfully tired. Even if he came home with me, I might not be any fun. My feet ache from waiting tables. And my heart aches, too. I don’t feel the least bit fun or sexy tonight. And I’d hate to let Weston down .

Forty minutes later, I’m waiting at the end of the bar when a hand slides across my ass.

I jump about a foot in the air and spin around to find Price grinning evilly at me. “Hey, Abbi. Where’s your boyfriend now?”

“Fuck you,” I spit. “What does it matter where he is? I’m not yours to touch. And it doesn’t matter what you ever do, or ever say, I will never be yours to touch.”

I hadn’t meant to react. Ignoring him is my usual strategy. And now Price has murder in his eyes. Suddenly I’m in a terrifying staring contest with my least favorite man in Burlington.

Until Kippy barks my name. “ Abbi . Table eight needs their check.”

I whirl around and head for table eight, my heart in my mouth.

From now on I’d better watch my back.

I sleep terribly that night, and wake up Friday feeling light-headed and tired. But I head off to Vermont Tartan to help them sort out their social media accounts again.

But when I get there, the new intern doesn’t show up. “Where’s Margie?” I ask Taft after saying hello.

“She called in sick,” he says. “There’s some flu going around.”

I fight off a shiver. Margie and I sat elbow to elbow the other day, working on VT’s Instagram account. “So you want me to just dive in?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” he says. “Alexis left you some photographs of the spring line in your cloud folder. She loved what you and Margie made last week.”

I sit down at the computer and open up the graphics software I’d asked Taft to subscribe to when I began my internship. And I start pulling in the new photos.

Alexis did a good job with the shots. They’re well lit on pale-colored wood backgrounds. Very springy. So I begin experimenting with lighthearted graphic embellishments to try to produce a string of posts for a week’s worth of content.

I’m a little tired, though, so I don’t even notice Alexis behind me until she claps her hands together and startles me so badly the computer mouse flies off the edge of the desk.

“Oh my word!” Alexis hoots. “I apologize.”

“No, it’s fine,” I say, clamping a hand over my suddenly pounding heart. “I just didn’t hear you.”

“That’s good work, Abbi.” She pulls out a chair and sits beside me. “I really like your content. It’s so fresh.”

“Thanks. I didn’t use the photo of the slippers, though.” I flip the screen to show her the picture that I mean. “The colors don’t really pop here, and I didn’t want to make the product look murky.”

“It is murky,” Alexis grumbles. “Those are stodgy, and no photo filter could fix it. All our slippers have that elderly look.” She wrinkles up her cute nose.

“Tell us how you really feel,” her father says from across the room.

“Dad, you know I’m right. We need some new looks.”

“Felted wool slippers are in,” I point out. “I think they’d fit the vibe without being too edgy.”

Alexis blinks. “I was just thinking about those, too.”

“Yeah?” I tap the computer screen, where I’ve got a photo of a plaid blanket enlarged. “I can see them paired with patterns like this.”

“Good eye, Abbi,” she says thoughtfully. “Tell me this—would a Gen Z kid wear felted wool slippers?”

“This one would,” I say with a shrug.

“Interesting.” She taps her lip. “Interesting.”