In her mourning, Charlie found it difficult to extend grace to others who had also lost. It was if she had developed some blind spot that allowed her to ignore the fact that others, too, were affected by death… it allowed her not to care. Sure, they’d experienced loss, but had they experienced seeing the man who talked about renovations and babies and life trapped underneath something else dead? Seen the waxy, near yellow color of their significant other, unresponsive to pleas and begging or felt the pop of a socket as they tried to pull them out from under what killed them?

This moment was no different. She’d known all along that Luke had been about to as accustomed to death as one could be, but it didn’t matter. Sam had been his brother, but he’d been her [I]husband[/I]. She was supposed to be with him forever, and now he wasn’t here. All Charlie had were these memories that Luke had not only suggested to take away but now threw in her face. She tore her eyes from the photo, tears blurring her vision as she continued to stare angrily at Luke even when he turned to tend the food.

“I don’t need to be reminded of that,” she snapped, eyes still narrowed. She would forever remember how fiercely Sam had loved her and that she would likely never experience it again. Milly told her that things would get better and, eventually, she would have the chance to be happy again. She, too, had mentioned moving on, offering to come to the farm and help pack things up but it was all too soon.

How could she get rid of him?

Rage turned to sorrow again, causing Charlie to stand and move towards Luke. “I know you miss him,” she started quietly, breaching the gap between them with only a few steps. “And I know it’s hard to see him here. Everywhere.” God, she was tired. “But if you could just give me a little bit of time. Maybe you being here will make it easier to deal with his absence.” It wasn’t the best thing to say, but it was the most truthful.

She looked up at Luke, offering what she hoped was a convincing smile. “Maybe we can paint.” Her fingers fell over the ones that held the club soda, lingering for more than they should have, before taking it from him. “And maybe not drink from the can.” Once she’d pried it from him, she grabbed a glass and washed it out, then filling it with ice and emptying the drink into it. “You know there’s probably eight different types of shit on that, right?”

Charlie held out the glass. “You wanna tell me about what errands you already have to do?”