She tried to twist the lid free. It was no use. Stupid goddamned pickle jar. All she wanted was one fucking pickle.
He had always been handy for things like that.
Not for listening.
Not for discussing feelings.
Not for protecting her heart or drying her tears.
She didn’t need him for any of that stuff anyway. But man, he could open a jar.
After days of surviving the marathon sob sessions and torturous loneliness, she sat in the kitchen floor with a sealed jar of pickles. For the first time, she was certain that she was going to die.