We Loved Until We Couldn’t Novel – Chapter 1
The eulogy was over, but the hard part was only beginning. The numbness hadn’t worn off yet, and I was desperate to outrun the grief that was coming for me.
The moment I finished speaking at his funeral, I caught a flight straight back to Boston and climbed onto the first rooftop I could find.
Not because I’m suicidal—far from it. I have no intention of jumping. I just needed air. Silence. Space. And since my third-floor apartment has no rooftop access—and a roommate who thinks she’s auditioning for The Voice—this rooftop would have to do.
I didn’t consider how cold it would be up here, though. Not unbearable, but definitely not cozy. At least the stars are out. Somehow, dead fathers, annoying roommates, and questionable eulogies don’t feel quite as awful when the night sky is clear enough to remind me how small I really am in the universe.
I love nights like this.
Well… I loved tonight.
Because, of course, the door just slammed open hard enough to make the stairwell spit out a person. The door bangs shut again, and quick footsteps cross the deck.
I don’t even bother looking up. Whoever it is probably won’t notice me sitting back here, straddling the ledge to the left of the door. They came out in such a rush—it’s not my fault if they assume they’re alone.
I sigh quietly, close my eyes, and lean my head against the stucco wall, cursing the universe for snatching away this rare, peaceful moment. The least it could do tonight is send a woman. If I have to share this space, I’d rather it be another female.
I can handle myself, sure—but I’m too relaxed right now to sit on a rooftop alone with a strange man in the middle of the night. If it’s a guy, I’ll probably start feeling uneasy and have to leave. And I really don’t want to leave.
I finally let my eyes drift toward the figure leaning over the ledge.
Of course—it’s a man.
Even hunched forward, I can tell he’s tall. His broad shoulders look strong, but there’s something fragile about the way he’s holding his head in his hands. I can just make out the rise and fall of his back as he drags in heavy breaths and exhales them slowly.
He looks like he’s on the verge of breaking down.
I think about clearing my throat, just to let him know he’s not alone—but before I can, he spins around and kicks one of the patio chairs.
The screech makes me flinch, but he doesn’t stop there. He keeps kicking the chair again and again, as if he’s trying to pick a fight with furniture. The chair doesn’t give—it just skids farther away each time.
That must be marine-grade polymer. My dad once backed his car into a table made of that stuff. Dented the bumper, but the table didn’t even scratch.
This guy must realize he’s losing the battle because he finally stops. He stands over the chair, fists clenched at his sides.
I can’t help but envy him a little. He’s letting his anger out. Meanwhile, I keep mine bottled up until it turns into passive-aggressive sarcasm.
Gardening used to be my outlet. Whenever I was stressed, I’d go outside and pull every weed I could find. But ever since I moved to Boston two years ago, I haven’t had a backyard. Or even a patio. No weeds to pull, no dirt to dig.
Maybe I need to invest in a marine-grade polymer patio chair.
He’s still standing there, staring down at the chair. His fists have loosened, his hands now resting on his hips. That’s when I notice his shirt—tight around the biceps, perfectly fitted everywhere else.
He fishes something from his pocket, and a few seconds later, he lights up a joint—probably hoping it’ll burn away whatever’s left of his anger.