There was silence, and then Brontë sighed… and was gone.
Graham’s body shook in a silent sob and I wrapped both arms around him and held him as he grieved. We sat for a long while like that, leaning into one another and just being.
After a while I excused myself to call the veterinarian’s office from the phone number listed on a business card on the refrigerator, knowing he was in no shape to have the conversation that was needed.
Thankfully they provided a service for such occasions, and I was reassured they’d be there within the hour. We could come along, if we wanted.
We did.
It was agonizing watching Graham leave his friend behind at the vet’s office, and when the cab pulled up to Graham’s house, I didn’t even bother to ask if I should stay, I just paid the driver and got out behind him.
“What can I do for you?” I asked after closing the front door behind us.
We stood in the entryway and he couldn’t have looked more like he didn’t belong in this stark house that was devoid of warmth… and his dog.
He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he whispered.
“Do you even want to be here? Is there a friend I can call? Or I could get you a hotel room. I have a guestroom you could hole up in for a while. The hostess is nice but she only serves donut holes for breakfast.”
He didn’t even smile. I wasn’t sure he’d even heard me as he looked through me, then toward the kitchen where the corner of one of Brontë’s beds could be seen.
“I wouldn’t be in your way?” he asked, his voice husky with emotion.
“Of course not.”
He packed his laptop, a few notebooks, a book that was dog-eared at least two dozen times, and a duffel bag of clothes.
“All good?” I asked, pulling the strap of his messenger bag over my shoulder.
“All good,” he said.
We walked the few blocks to my house in silence, and then I left him to get himself settled in the guest room on the second floor while I made us both cappuccinos and texted Addie, who still didn’t know about what had happened between Graham and I.
“How is he?” she texted back.
“He looks as though he’s lost his best friend.”
“He has. Give him a big hug from me.”
I served the coffee in the living room with a container of donut holes, receiving a small grin in return.
“I think you have a problem,” he said, and popped a chocolate dipped one in his mouth.
“And now you do too,” I said, going for a powdered sugar.
We spent the next few days in a quiet little fog, sometimes talking, sometimes sitting in companionable silence, him working or reading, me reading or making notes for an article I’d been hired to write for Elle magazine.
Rather than go on our usual morning walks, we headed straight to Mornin’ Joe’s instead. Like us, Joe was devastated to hear the news of Brontë, and looked with concern at Graham who was a shell of himself.
When I had to leave for a job in London for a few days, I texted Marley, who had been in contact every few days since we met in Seattle, and asked her to check in with her brother.
“Just try and distract him,” I said. “Especially in the evenings if you can. I think that’s when it’s the hardest.”
Some nights I cooked, some nights he cooked, other nights we called for takeout. We consumed a lot of television, watched a dozen or so movies, and sat at opposite ends of my sofa reading. But I could often tell he wasn’t distracted as much as he pretended to be, his eyes often taking on a far-off look before filling with tears.
And we talked. He told me about his best friend from school who he’d lost touch with when married to Nadia.
“She didn’t like competition,” he said. “Even from Cooper, who I’ve known since I was eleven.”
