That night, they’d bought a fifth of whiskey and killed it. They met with Perrin and her new boyfriend, Bran. That part of the day Maggie wouldn’t recreate. Today belonged to her and Nash.
Perrin couldn’t handle her grief and would question her coping skills if she knew Maggie celebrated his last day alive by recreating the memory of everything they did. But Perrin also didn’t know what it was to have a husband—or lose one.
Her sister tried to understand. She talked about Nash a lot, but always in the past tense. Maggie didn’t want to talk about Nash in the past tense today, because today he was alive. Maybe that made her crazy, but she didn’t care. Tomorrow would be the worst day of her year, every year, for the rest of her life. She would do whatever it took to make today one of the best. And if that meant pretending her dead husband was still there with her then so be it.
When she finished her coffee, she left his untouched on the edge of the firepit and went upstairs to shower. Her clothes from two years ago still fit, though they were looser.
She dressed in her favorite jeans and a black and green flannel. It was important that she do her hair, because she used to do those things. As she brushed her hair and twisted waves around her face, she noted the deep worry lines developing around her eyes. She should start using night cream.
She always tried to look nice for Nash, who had a way of looking effortlessly handsome every second of every day. After glopping her lashes with mascara and dabbing on a subtle lip stain, she opened her top drawer where she kept her shamrock antennae headband and carefully secured it on her head.
Her reflection took her back in time, to a place she knew she’d never visit again. How easy life would be if she could just go back. An internal part of her conscience called her a stupid fool for recreating a fantasy, but the tattered parts of her heart needed this.
All this effort to pretend. What a waste.
She pushed the thought away and stared into the mirror, not feeling satisfied or disappointed. Just numb.
“Time to go.” She shut out the light and headed downstairs.
Stopping at the back door, her gaze settled on the lonesome coffee cup sitting in front of the empty chair, and she staggered back three steps. Her breath whooshed from her lungs as the walls of her broken heart seized on the emptiness filling her. A familiar gaping void that got heavier and heavier with each passing day.
She caught her breath and swallowed a sob. “I can’t do this.”
Backing away from the door, she reached for the refrigerator. Jars rattled as she jerked open the fridge and pulled out a bottle of beer.
Twisting off the cap, she threw her back into the wall and chugged the cold beer down as fast as she could. Gasping for breath, she wiped the tears off her cheeks and tossed the empty bottle in the recycling.
“You can do this.”
Eyes squeezed shut, she forced in a galvanizing breath. She needed a minute. She needed another beer. She needed her fucking husband.
Oblivion sounded great right about now.
Pressing the heels of her palms to her forehead, she waited for her heart to stop pounding. “Don’t ruin this. You have one day to pretend. Don’t screw it up.”
She turned to the door again. Her eyes avoided the untouched cup as she pulled on her coat and left.
She didn’t think too hard on the brisk walk into town. When she reached the point where the parade started, she waited for others to arrive. Something didn’t feel right.
Cars navigated Main Street, as if it were any other day. She frowned. Where were the lawn chairs and the people? Where were the kids and the marching bands? It was March seventeenth, right?
She walked a block and stared at the O’Malley’s Pub parking lot. It was half full and only eleven a.m. The marquee read, Lá Fhéile Pádraig sona duit! Happy St. Patrick’s Day in Gaelic. So where was the parade?
Backtracking a few stores, she slipped into the café. Hipsters were everywhere. Nash would have had a hundred mustache jokes at the ready.
She waited in line until the blue-eyed barista greeted her with a cheerful smile. “Lá Fhéile Pádraig sona duit! Can I interest you in an Irish coffee today?”
Way too bubbly.
“Um, no thanks. Do you know when the parade starts?”
Her vibrant eyes creased at the corners as her head tipped thoughtfully to the side, a tumble of black curls falling over her shoulder where her nametag read Tallulah. She was a strikingly beautiful young girl. “I guess you didn’t hear.”
Maggie frowned. “Hear what?”
“The parade’s been postponed this year.”
“Postponed? Until when? Today’s St. Patrick’s Day.”