One More Day by Kelly Simmons Read Free Book Online Page B

burning. Was the woman a regular? Had she overheard Carrie ordering this before, standing daily in this same long line, and just thought to herself, Gosh, that sounds good. I’ll try that too ? And then, just as quickly, she felt a long finger of shame pointing, burning. Why couldn’t she be more generous? She had invented the drink, yes, but it didn’t belong to her, and even if it did, why couldn’t she share it? She considered changing her order, tinkering, trying something new, and then tried to put the incident out of her mind. After all, if she baked a pie from scratch, without a recipe, wouldn’t she be glad if someone else liked the way it tasted?
    Her response to this, the jealousy topped with shame, bothered her at the periphery for weeks before the realization began to creep in, slowly, that her daily ritual was all too important to her. She had no job and no direction—and happened to be blessed with a happy, healthy child who didn’t need a whole lot from her. Other people, yes: his father’s roughhousing and sporty attention, definitely. But what did Ben want from her exactly? So little, it seemed. The world made him happy, no matter whether she was in it.
    And then, each afternoon, there it was: her cup held aloft, her name in the air—they had become a kind of clarion call. She was just beginning to understand that something was wrong about this, that something had to change. She’d wanted to be a stay-at-home mom who shared a snack with her son every day. But it was less about her son and more about the snack. She needed it, needed it all too much. The sermon at church that Sunday was about addiction, and that sealed it: she needed to change.
    Did she need to go back to work? That was the first thing she considered. She hadn’t told John, but right before they’d lost Ben, she’d sent a few emails to friends in PR and asked about freelance opportunities. She’d asked at the church about the price of day care there and was surprised by how affordable it was. The delicate filaments of her low-level ambition, her love of work, were just beginning to tingle in her again, and then, that final trip for her afternoon pick-me-up. The parking space just outside— So lucky! How seldom that happened! —followed by her luck turning on a lack of dime, quarter, nickel.
    That awful night, after the search party had quit around midnight and Carrie and John had gone home, she’d taken out her Starbucks card and stomped it under the heel of her Converse, pounding it until it stretched and nearly cracked, like a sheet of dry, tensile dough. She’d vowed that night never to go back there again. If she hadn’t gone there in the first place, if she hadn’t stopped every day, if she had just brought a sippy cup and animal crackers and a bottle of water to the Y like everyone else, she would still have her son. She blamed the coffee. She blamed the hunger. She blamed herself. Of course she did.
    Carrie opened the car door and stepped forward to get a better look at the storefront. Just one more look. She had no intention of going in. She’d made her promise; she’d made her deal with God. She would give it up, all of it. But when would God do his part? Her bargain seemed impossible, silly, remote. She stood outside and watched the people streaming out of the door with their matte white cups paired with deckled brown sleeves. Laughing, happier leaving than when they entered. A part of her wanted to be one of them again but knew she never could be. She wanted more.
    She wanted a sign, she thought suddenly. Give me a sign that I have been heard. But the logo through the trees, mounted on wood—that couldn’t be her sign anymore. Could it?
    A horn tapped behind her. She startled, then turned. John’s face behind the windshield of their car, filled with love and concern. How long had he sat there, still clutching the small Trader Joe’s