What's Left of Me Read online

  What’s Left of Me

  Kristen Granata

  Copyright © 2020 by Kristen Granata

  www.kristengranata.com

  Cover by Taylor Danae Colbert

  Edited by Jenn Lockwood Editing

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  1. One

  2. Two

  3. Three

  4. Four

  5. Five

  6. Six

  7. Seven

  8. Eight

  9. Nine

  10. Ten

  11. Eleven

  12. Twelve

  13. Thirteen

  14. Fourteen

  15. Fifteen

  16. Sixteen

  17. Seventeen

  18. Eighteen

  19. Nineteen

  20. Twenty

  21. Twenty-One

  22. Twenty-Two

  23. Twenty-Three

  24. Twenty-Four

  25. Twenty-Five

  26. Twenty-Six

  27. Twenty-Seven

  28. Twenty-Eight

  29. Twenty-Nine

  30. Thirty

  31. Thirty-One

  32. Thirty-Two

  33. Thirty-Three

  Three Months Later

  34. Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  Inevitable

  1

  2

  Acknowledgments

  To Jasmine, Carrie, Janae, Jennifer, and Chelsea, Thank you for sharing your stories with me and allowing me to share them with the world.

  This book is for every woman who’s fighting a secret battle. You are not alone.

  Author’s Note

  I started writing this story after a friend of mine lost her baby when she was eight months pregnant.

  I realized that I had nothing to say, nothing to offer that could make it “better” for her. As a writer, words are my thing, so I feel helpless when they fall short.

  Whenever someone experiences something that I haven’t, I try to put myself in their shoes. How would I feel? How would I react? What would I do? But it’s not the same.

  It’s easy to make judgments from where we stand, not truly knowing or understanding what it’s like. (And even when we’ve gone through something similar, we each handle it differently.) So, I decided to talk with women who’ve been through the themes I wanted to cover.

  This story contains topics that may be sensitive for some readers. I hope that I’ve handled them realistically, yet delicately enough so that the triggers aren’t too overwhelming for you.

  One

  Callie

  I’m not getting out of bed today.

  This is an amazing mattress. Just the right amount of firm-to-soft ratio. This comforter rocks too. It’s puffy but not suffocating. These sheets are a high thread count. Breathable. I did good when I picked these out. I could stay here all day. Don’t need to go grocery shopping. Who needs to eat when you have a mattress like this? Laundry? Pffft. I won’t need clothes if I stay in bed. This is the perfect solution to all of life’s problems.

  But what is that awful smell?

  A long, wet tongue slides across my cheek, and I groan. “Go back to sleep, Maverick.”

  With my eyelids still closed, I reach out and smooth my fingers through my retriever’s fluffy fur. His tongue makes another pass over my cheek, and again, I’m hit with a blast of that stench.

  My nose scrunches as my head jerks up off the pillow. “Maverick, did you eat your poop again?”

  His head dips down, and he rests it on top of his front paws.

  “Don’t give me those eyes! They’re not going to work on me this time.”

  He leaps off the bed and bounds into the hallway, tail swatting from left to right as he waits for me at the top of the stairs.

  Guess I’m getting out of bed.

  I flip the comforter off my body, swing my legs to the side of the mattress, and jam my feet into my plush white slippers.

  Once I’m vertical, my head throbs like someone dropped an anvil on it. I grip onto the cool iron bannister and take my time down the spiral staircase. Maverick waits at the bottom, his body thrashing like a shark from the momentum of his tail.

  “You are way too awake for me right now, bud.”

  He woofs in response and prances into the kitchen ahead of me.

  When I stagger into the kitchen, sunlight streams through the windows, reflecting off the marble countertop and searing my retinas. I yank the cord on the blinds and bury my face in the crook of my elbow, hissing like Dracula.

  Maverick plops down at my feet, nuzzling my ankle with his wet nose. We both jump when we hear the creak of the front door, and then he takes off into the foyer.

  Paul strides into the kitchen, saturated in sweat from his morning run, and I hold my breath until his lips curve up into a smile.

  “Good morning, gorgeous.”

  Relief washes over me. “Morning. How was your run?”

  Paul snatches a water bottle from the refrigerator and twists off the cap. “Four miles today.”

  His royal-blue Under Armour T-shirt clings to his broad chest, the muscles in his biceps flexing with his movements. His blond strands are damp and disheveled, and his skin glows with a golden sheen.

  I lift an eyebrow. “How is it that you look this sexy after a four-mile run?”

  He grins. “How is it that you look this sexy when you just woke up?”

  I huff out a sardonic laugh, knowing damn well I resemble the Crypt Keeper at the moment.

  Paul leans in with puckered lips, but I make an X with my forearms in front of my face. “The poop-eating bandit got me. You might want to stay back.”

  He looks down at Maverick, and as if he knows we’re talking about him, Maverick ducks around the corner of the island.

  “You’re nasty, dog.”

  “I’ll call the vet today. Maybe they’ll know how to deter him from eating his own feces.”

  Paul leans his hip against the counter. “I think all dogs eat their own crap.”

  “We have to watch him better when he’s out back. Stop it before he can get to it.” I walk around the island so I can start on breakfast. “I read something once that said dogs eat their poop when they’re lacking vitamins in their diet. Was it an article? Maybe Josie told me. I don’t know; I can’t remember. Either way—”

  I stop moving and snap my fingers in front of Paul’s face. “Are you even listening to me?”

  Paul shakes his head, his eyes roving over my body. “I haven’t heard one word since you stood up in those silky shorts.”

  I smile and set a frying pan on top of the stove. “Please. This isn’t anything you haven’t seen before.”

  “Yet it never gets old.” He closes the distance between us and stands behind me, trailing his hands up my arms.

  I hum at his light touch, welcoming it. “Let’s hope you always think that.”

  “I know I will.” He tilts my head to the side and presses his lips to my neck. One of his hands slips under my camisole, cupping my breast, while he tugs my shorts down with the other.

  My head falls back against his shoulder, and a long exhale leaves my parted lips. “Don’t y
ou have a meeting?”

  “Just means we’ll have to be quick.” His fingers slide between my thighs and press inside me while his thumb rubs circles on my clit at the same time.

  My legs quiver, and I reach forward to grip the edge of the counter. Paul gives my back a gentle push until my chest is pressed against the cool marble, and then he slides his length inside me.

  “I love you,” he whispers at my ear, gripping my hips, pumping in and out of me in long, controlled strokes.

  I arch my back to meet each of his thrusts, and his fingers return to my clit as he drives into me faster, harder, deeper. I moan, writhing against his hand, and his pace quickens.

  I can feel the pleasure mounting in my core, the steady build like a rising wave. Soon, it crashes over me. I cry out as the spasms rack through my body. Paul goes under too, grunting as his hot liquid fills me.

  He holds me there, pressing soft kisses to my shoulder, my neck, my temple. “This is what I’ve missed. I’m so glad we can finally get back to how things used to be.”

  “Me too.”

  And that’s my halfhearted truth.

  I should relish in this feeling, the closeness, his gentle love, but my mind crawls toward the analytical place it always goes to, calculating the date, the time, the exact location in my cycle. My fingers itch to reach for my phone and click on the fertility app out of habit, but for the first time in three years, I don’t.

  And after last night, I never will again.

  With a pat on my backside, Paul pulls away and tucks himself back into his running shorts. “I’m hitting the shower.”

  My eyes linger on his wide back and confident swagger as he leaves the room with his head held high, free from the anxious thoughts that plague me.

  Guilt squeezes my chest when I think about everything that I’ve put him through over the past few years. The stress, the doctor’s appointments, all my tears.

  No more.

  Paul’s right. We need to get back to the way we used to be. Back before I became obsessed with starting a family. Before I plunged into depression and dragged him down with me. Before the people we were when we got married turned into strangers.

  It’s time to put it to rest.

  And it’s up to me to do it.

  I can be better.

  I can find happiness again.

  I straighten my camisole, pull up my shorts, and start gathering the ingredients I need for breakfast.

  The kitchen is my favorite room in this entire house. Beautiful marble countertops; tall, white cabinets; stainless steel appliances. Paul had the contractor create it based off of my exact vision. He says it’s because he loves me so much. I say it’s because he needs me to cook for him because Paul could burn water.

  Sometimes it feels like I’m living someone else’s life, like this is all a dream. Living in a mansion in Orange County, California, married to the Adonis that is my husband, not having to get up and work 9-5 every day. I’m very fortunate to have everything I could ever need at my fingertips.

  I didn’t grow up with all this. I came from an average, middle-class family. But when I met Paul in college, everything changed. We’ve been together for nine years now, and I’m still not used to this lifestyle. I don’t think I ever will be.

  As I scoop the egg-white-and-spinach omelet with hash browns into the glass container, Paul struts back into the kitchen, dressed to perfection in his navy suit. I hand him his lunch bag, his breakfast, and his coffee mug.

  He presses his lips to the top of my head. “Thanks, gorgeous. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Have a good day.”

  “Be good, poop breath,” he calls over his shoulder.

  Maverick barely lifts his head from where he’s sprawled out by the back door, bathing in the sunspot.

  The dog-life of Riley.

  When I hear the click of the front door, a long exhale whooshes out of me. I want to walk upstairs and climb right back into bed, but if I’m going to make things better, I have to start by looking the part. So instead, I drag myself up the stairs and into the bathroom.

  It’s been a while since I’ve cared about my appearance. Been a while since I’ve cared about anything other than becoming a mother.

  Fake it ‘til you make it, they say.

  Flipping on the lights, I shimmy out of my pajama shorts and tear the camisole over my head. I suck in a sharp breath when my eyes land on my reflection in the mirror for the first time this morning. My stomach clenches at the sight of the dark-purple splotches along my left bicep, memories of last night flooding my vision.

  Damn you, Maverick. I wanted to stay in bed today.

  I blink away the hot tears before they get the chance to brim over, quick to replace the weak emotion with logic.

  Paul drank too much last night, and everything we’ve been holding in for the last three years came to a head.

  It was my fault.

  I shouldn’t have let things get to that point.

  I shouldn’t have spoken up.

  I’ll do better.

  It won’t happen again.

  Needing a plan rather than wallowing in self-pity, I examine the span of the bruising and mentally scour through my wardrobe for the right sweater. Hopefully, today will be brisk enough to wear one without drawing attention to myself. Even if the weather’s hot, I could get away with wearing one of my cardigans with three-quarter-length sleeves. Shouldn’t be too conspicuous.

  Deep breath in through the nose, and out through the mouth.

  Maverick.

  California king bed.

  Walk-in closet.

  Dream kitchen.

  Yard with a pool.

  Mercedes.

  “I’m fine,” I tell my reflection. “Everything’s fine.”

  I twist the lever in the shower and step under the waterfall, letting the warm water cascade over my skin. By the time I lather and rinse, the urge to cry is gone and I can breathe easy again.

  Wrapping the towel around myself, I swing open the bathroom door and head to my closet. My pale-yellow sweater covers the mess on my arm, and I leave it unbuttoned over my white-and-yellow floral maxi dress. I spend thirty minutes lining my eyelids, curling my lashes, and passing the flatiron over my blond waves, taming it the way I know Paul prefers it.

  With my armor in place, I square my shoulders in the mirror and heave a sigh. “Good as new.”

  At the sound of my sandals clunking down the stairs, my overeager dog gallops toward the front door.

  “Ready for your walk, Mav?”

  He woofs and spins in a circle.

  I’m clipping his leash onto his collar when a loud boom echoes outside. My shoulders jolt, and Maverick jumps to scratch at the door, barking like a madman.

  “Are we starting with the fireworks already?”

  The Fourth of July isn’t for another week. Plus, it’s nine o’clock in the morning.

  I push the sheer cream curtain aside and peer out the window. A white pickup truck rolls to a stop in front of Josie’s house across the street. Well, there are visible areas of white paint—the truck was white at one time—surrounded by burnt-orange rust spots eating away at the metal. The bed of the truck is covered by a blue tarp, securing the contents underneath with a yellow bungee cord. Thick, black smoke billows from the exhaust pipe, trailing all the way down the block.

  The truck pops again as it idles, sending Maverick into another barking fit.

  “All right, bud. Enough.” I reach down to pat his head, keeping my nose glued to the windowpane.

  The driver’s door swings open, and a man steps out. A navy-blue baseball cap sits on his head, pulled down low over his eyes. His plain white T-shirt, which looks more like an undershirt, is wrinkled and smudged with brown stains. His jeans are ripped—not the kind of rips people pay for—and equally as filthy as his shirt. He strides around the front bumper and up the walkway that leads to Josie’s backyard.

  “He must be the new landscaper.”
r />   Maverick cocks his head to the side as if he’s listening to me.

  Josie’s Lexus isn’t in her driveway, so I find it strange that she’d give a stranger the passcode to get in through her back gate. Maybe she left it unlocked for him before she left. Seems odd, but we’ve been desperate to find a new landscaping company after one of the workers from our old company got caught having an affair with Mrs. Nelson down the street. If Josie found someone dependable, I’m going to need his card. Paul will be thrilled. Our shrubs need trimming, and weeds are beginning to poke up through the pavers in our driveway.

  “Come on, bud.” I snatch my sunglasses off the entryway table and lead Maverick out the front door.

  Once we cross the wide street, Maverick pulls ahead of me, his nose to the ground, sniffing his way up the path of pavers. The iron gate is ajar, and Maverick continues pulling me through the opening into the backyard.

  The layout is like mine. Same-sized rectangular inground pool, similar patio furniture. But Josie’s yard is full of life, whereas mine has barely been touched. Squirt guns, skateboard ramps, and balls from every sport litter her grass. It’s obvious that a family lives here.

  Josie often complains of the mess, but I’d give anything to step on a Lego block belonging to my child.

  The landscaper is standing in front of the pool house with his back to me, one hand on his hip while the other tips the neck of a brown glass bottle into his mouth.

  So much for finding a reliable landscaper.