Ryan
The tires of Larry's pickup crunch over the gravel at Erie Memorial. Rain beats against the roof, loud enough to drown out everything else. I cut the engine and just sit there, the wipers stopping mid-swipe. I stare out the window, gripping the steering wheel.
Tomorrow's the anniversary of their death. But I couldn’t wait. I needed to see them today.
I reach over and grab the bouquet from the passenger seat. White carnations. Mom's favorite. The plastic wrapper crinkles too loudly in the quiet cab. I pull my Titans hoodie up and step out into the rain.
Cold water soaks through my jeans instantly. My boots sink into the mud. Don't need to see where I'm going. My feet know the way. Past the oak tree. Left at the angel statue with a broken wing.
And there they are.
Three headstones. Side by side.
Sarah Elizabeth Henneman
Beloved Daughter and Sister
Michael James Henneman
Loving Husband and Father
Jennifer Rose Henneman
Devoted Wife and Mother
I lay a few carnations on each stone, the white petals too bright against the dark, rain-slick granite. “Hey, guys. It’s me.”
Rain runs down my face. Or maybe it's tears. Can't tell anymore.
“I miss you guys so much. Every day.” My voice cracks. “But this month . . . this month is the worst.”
My knees hit the mud. Legs too weak to stand.
“I . . . I was working hard. I wanted to make you proud. But everything’s such a mess. I don’t know what to do.” I lean forward, pressing my forehead against Mom’s headstone. The granite's cold against my skin. “Mom, I need you. I’m so lost. Need you to tell me it's okay, that I'm not as broken as I feel.”
It feels like my chest splits wide open.
A deep, guttural wail tears from my throat, then another. My whole body shakes as I cry harder than I have in years. Harder than when I woke up in that hospital. Harder than after the group home.
Snot runs down my face as my hands claw at the mud. I need something solid. Something real.
“You'd be so ashamed of me.” The words come out between gasps. “So disappointed I’m in love with Connor even after everything he did.”
My forehead presses harder against Mom's stone until it hurts. The pain's good. Real. Better than the hole in my chest. “I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know how to fixme. Please, just . . . just tell me what to do.”
“Ryan?”
My body tenses.
No. Not here. Not at their graves.
I scramble to turn around, slipping in the mud. My vision's blurred by tears and rain. I blink hard, thinking I'm hallucinating. “Connor?”
He's standing a few feet away. Actually standing there, soaked through.
My heart slams against my ribs. Part of me wants to run to him. Part of me wants to scream at him to leave, to get away from them, from this place that's mine.
I’m up and closing the distance between us, but stop a foot away. Jesus. His face. It’s fucked up—black eye, swollen split lip, bruised cheeks.
