Chapter Two: Numbering the Days

She liked to save opening the windowshades for last, filling the front of the shop with elongating squares of light that make the hardwood floor gleam. Today, Ava was so busy cleaning up that she didn't open the shades until just before she unlocked the door, at eleven o'clock. She tensed a little to see someone standing right by the front door, waiting for the shop to open, but then she realized that it was just Bob and Ava relaxed, opening the door for him with a welcoming smile.

"Come on in, Bob. How's it going?" she greeted him. Bob is one of Ava's favorite regulars. He comes off as a crusty old bastard, but inside he's just a softie. He even volunteers at a local elementary school, helping the kids that have trouble reading, but Ava'd known him for more than two years before he ever told her about it.

"Hey, Ava," Bob drawled. He was originally from Savannah, Georgia, and still had his accent after 20 years in Colorado. "I'll be doin' a hell of a lot better after I get a beer in me, I can tell you that, honey."

Ava gave the obligatory laugh and ducked under the bar, picking up a clean pint glass and filling it with Guinness, his usual. She set the Guinness on the bar to settle for a few minutes before pouring the final inch.

"Trudy's up in Denver all day today, at some damn craft show or somethin'," Bob said. They bullshitted while Ava waited for the Guinness to settle. She topped it off and handed it to him. His face broke into a smile, and he reached for it with both hands and a happy sigh. Ava laughed.

"Guinness is good for you!" Bob protested after his first swallow, smacking his lips and setting the beer on the counter. Ava shook her head.

"I know it is, believe me," she said. "Hey, we got in some new NYT bestsellers yesterday, did you see them?" Bob got up and wandered over to browse the bookshelves, taking his beer with him.

Ava wanted nothing more than to hide out in the kitchen for a while and try to think about what to do next. The nausea had passed, leaving her even more certain in its wake. "Just holler if you need me, Bob," she called over to him, getting an answering wave over the bookshelves.

In the kitchen, Ava leaned against the counter and took a long gulp of her beer. What now? Take a test, right, that was the first step. She looked at the pint glass in her hand, thought about the pot and cigarettes in her purse. She thought about the long, long journey of her first pregnancy and how it had ended. She moved quickly, suddenly, to get her cell phone out of her bag, but stopped herself before she reached it. Instead, Ava turned and crossed to the fridge, pulling out bowls of prepped vegetables and setting them on the counter.

"What good would it do to call Eric?" she argued with herself. "He's gone. He left. We've been through this shit already. It's not even his kid. Not that I'm definitely pregnant." She found herself staring at her hand moving aimlessly back and forth across the counter, as if it belonged to someone else. She could feel the wounds reopen, feel the raw grief welling up inside her again. The memory of laying on that table was so vivid, the ultrasound technician nervous and trying to stay professional, waiting for her daughter's heart to start beating again, not understanding that it never would.

It had been three years and three months. Ava crossed the kitchen again, pulling the calendar off the wall, flipping through it. November 11th. Three years, three months and three days exactly from August 8th. "Eight eight," she said aloud, staring at the calendar without really seeing it. "Eleven eleven." And she could not keep the tears from coming.