I hate numbers.

I hate how uniform and indisputable they are.

I hate how they have taken over my once colorful life completely. How they've turned every neat stroke of baby blue into an ugly blob of infinite black. The black I've been waking up to for the past two years, one month, and twenty-six days.

Guilt and hunger twist my stomach as I struggle with the stubborn luggage that doesn't want to leave the trunk of my Prius—a farewell present from Owen, soon-to-be my ex-husband on paper, although he hasn't actually been one in over two years.

Once the heavy bag makes it to the ground, I smooth my burning palms over the fabric of my winter coat and give myself a few seconds to process the view in front of me—a small private lake house hiding behind the multicolored line of trees. Their tortured-by-the-wind tips are desperate for the attention of afternoon sun. The golds and the reds up above, so typical of fall in Tahoe, look lost amidst the heavy clouds racing across the November sky.

Agreeing to my friend's house-sitting arrangement didn't seem like a bad idea when Rayna offered. It does now. Besides, she and her husband never needed a house sitter in Tahoe before.

The blanket of dead leaves shielding the cold ground rustles beneath my boots as I shuffle my feet to the front door.

Painful memories of the happy moments spent here with Owen cause my chest to stiffen.

Life doesn't end at twenty-six, does it?

For some, like my son, River, who was diagnosed with congenital leukemia only two days after his birth, it ends at four.

Here we go, numbers again.

My fingers are numb, just like the rest of my body, as I thrust my hand into the pocket of my pea coat and fish for the key. As soon as I step inside, the faint smell of vanilla and pumpkin trap me into a bubble of more memories. The time of my life before River. When things were simple. When it was just Rayna, Clay, Owen, and me. And our wild Tahoe weekends.

The cabin looks exactly like it did years ago, unaffected by the storms in our lives. Its vintage rustic interior is warm and inviting. There are lots of carpets, artwork, crafts, and plenty of windows overlooking the lake; its glazed blue surface almost taking my breath away. But the lingering hint of a feeling lasts only a fraction of a second.

I drop the luggage and cross the living room, my eyes zeroing in on the glimmer of the appliances peeking out from the kitchen. I walk over to the fridge and pull the door open, only to find a package of turkey and a lonely can of tomato juice on the top shelf. My phone buzzes in my pocket when I'm searching for bread. And possibly wine or beer.

"Hey, hon." Rayna's voice hesitant and somewhat uneasy on the line. "How was the drive?"

"Long and boring." I walk back to the island with a stack of the paper plates I found in one of the cabinets. "How was your flight?"

"Clay almost went crazy. Eleven hours on a plane." Rayna forces a laugh. I wish she hadn't, though. Not for me. "Are you settling in okay?"

"Yep. About to make a sandwich."

"Oh God!" She gasps. "The turkey one? Don't eat that. It's been there since last Christmas. I told my cleaning lady to get some groceries for you. She usually comes Thursdays or Fridays. She has her own key. Her name is Ester."

"Okay." Looking around the dust-free kitchen, I realize today isactually Friday. And if Ester had been here earlier, she probably didn't get any groceries because I never told Rayna when exactly I was coming to the cabin until I got in my car today in the morning and took off. The thought of going out to a store on my own sends a cold shiver down my back. Part of me ached to escape L.A. because of the holiday crowds. People are overrated. Most people, anyway. "What's your first stop?"

"Paris."

Owen and I never traveled further than Arizona to see his family. "Send me some photos later?"

"Of course." She pauses. "Clay told me you guys are calling it quits... Is it true? Did Owen file for divorce?"

"It was bound to happen sooner or later." I lean against the kitchen island; my tired body is starting to fail me. Being trapped in a car on a lonely highway for eight hours will do that to you. "I guess it wasn't meant to be." I can't believe I'm saying this. Ten years ago, when Owen crashed into my life, I didn't think it was possible to fall for someone harder than I fell for him. Look where we are now. Instead of falling for each other even more, we are just...falling apart.

The doom of my divorce is suddenly hitting me hard, fast, and repeatedly. The shadow of my marriage has been slowly suffocating me from the inside out for over two years. We don't do anything together anymore, we don't have dinners, we don't watch TV, we don't even talk. Truth be told, I wasn't surprised at all when Owen brought up the divorce. I'd thought about it too, but didn't have the heart to tell him. It's been so long since he's shown any affection that I've forgotten what it feels like to be hugged, kissed, or simply touched.

Not that I need or want any of that.

"Hazel?" Rayna's voice jolts me back to reality.

"Sorry." I hold my breath as a painful spasm attacks my stomach.

"I know you hate when I do this, but you need to start getting out. At the very least, do some shopping or get a haircut. You can't spend the rest of your life locked up in your room. You're twenty-six. Not sixty-six. You need a change. Please, just do it for me."

After wrapping up our phone conversation, I toss the expired turkey and tomato juice into the trash can, dispose of my coat and boots, and haul my luggage to the guest room. Being in this house by myself feels strange. Owen and I used to crash here almost every weekend. His parents hated the fact he was dating an aspiring painter just as much as my parents hated the fact I was dating the school's biggest troublemaker. Who knew Owen would eventually settle down and make his real estate license dream come true?

Part of me wants to turn around and run like a scared little girl, away from the memories, but part of me knows that running won't make any difference. It'll still hurt.

I kneel in front of my luggage, unzip it, and absently look through my things. Seven years of marriage and four years of motherhood stuffed into a leather Kate Spade suitcase as if those parts of my life never existed. After setting aside some of my clothes and bathroom essentials, I pull out a stack of photos from the side pocket and study them one by one—the photos of my little boy, the photos Owen didn't want to keep, the photos that used to decorate the walls of our Encino house. When tears start pricking my eyes, I put all the mementos away and head to the bathroom.

Rayna may have done a shitty job of stocking up her kitchen, but she's made sure there are enough beauty products to host a pageant. I try not to look at my reflection in the vanity mirror while undressing, but my eyes still stare. Even though they don't like what they see.

It's your own damn fault that Owen wants a divorce, Hazel. Look at you. Why should he care about you when you don't?

Shaking off the unsettling feeling, I turn on the water to fill up the tub, grab a hairbrush, and run it through the strands of my once beautiful, golden locks. After a few minutes of fighting the tangled mess, I give up. New hair isn't going to make Owen change his mind. I don't even want him to; it's too late. Our marriage can't be salvaged.

Tossing the hairbrush aside, I carefully lower my body into the tub and rest my head against the ceramic wall in an attempt to relax, but my mind is still reeling from the long drive. Anxiety, fear, and ache—all mixed into one strange dull sensation filling the hollow parts of my heart are not letting me go. All I can think of is River, think about what he would look like today, what he would be wearing, what he would be eating for dinner, what he would be asking for for Christmas. Even the flowery scent of the body wash reminds me of the bubble baths I used to make for him.

I'm not sure how much time passes before I finally snap out of my daze, the now lukewarm water almost reaching my mouth, and I can't help but wonder how much time it would take for someone to discover my body if I were to drown while taking a nap.

I hate being awake and sober.

The second, more thorough, kitchen raid leaves me with one twelve-ounce can of Diet Coke. Not enough and definitely not the drink I'd choose to drown my sorrows in. Frustrated and thirsty, I stomp back to the bedroom and pick out a pair of skinny jeans and a sweater from my suitcase. Does Rayna really think a haircut and some shopping will make a difference?

Try it, Hazel?

"Fine, you win," I tell myself after retrieving my tiny makeup bag. I haven't opened that bag in ages. Not since before River's funeral. What are the chances it's mold and spiderweb free?

Surprisingly, my eyeliner, mascara, and eyeshadow kit are still intact.

I walk over to the bathroom and plant my feet in front of the vanity. The zombie staring back at me from the mirror is about to get a makeover.