“Yeah,” he responds, sighing with relief and collapsing onto me.
I chuckle under his heavy body as we allow the moment to pass, neither of us wanting to rush its ending. Eventually, herolls out of me. “Do you want the bathroom first?” He asks, discarding the used condom.
“Thanks,” I say, wanting to fall asleep but knowing better.
By the time I’ve finished washing up and removing my makeup, his soft snores are filling the room. I climb in next to him, smiling against his body when he lifts his arm so I can snuggle into his side. I’m not sure if I’d choose to go through all I did to end up here. But I’m as certain as the sleepy heartbeat under my ear that I’m exactly where I belong.
Krystal
The morning feels different. The emptiness of the bed is normal. I’m always sleeping when Nick leaves at the crack of dawn to go take pictures. Still, something feels off when I wake to the empty space next to me. I stretch out a yawn, reach over for my phone to check the time. It’s just after eight, which is early considering how late we stayed up last night.
I brush my teeth, splash some water on my face, and pull on a pair of sweats. Nick’s large hoodie slips easily over my head before I unwrap my hair and pull it into a ponytail. After easing into my Uggs, I go out to look for him.
I almost walk the perimeter of the property when I spot him. He’s on the other side of the frozen pond, sitting with his legs hanging over the cliff. I don’t see his camera, so the sinking feeling in my gut deepens.
“You want to be alone?” I stop a few feet away in case the answer is yes.
When he turns to face me, tears swim in his sad eyes while he offers me a gentle smile, patting the spot beside him.
When the snow wets my butt even through the thick cotton of my bottoms, I wish I wore more layers, but I want to be here more.
“Today marks four years since he passed,” he explains. I hate the grave undertone of his voice. I wish I could give his family back to him. I would do anything to take his pain away, even if that meant us not being together. I want to reach over and take his hand in mine, but he’s tossing a stone back and forth as he stares out onto the horizon. I rest my cheek on his shoulder, sighing when he rests his head on mine.
“I’m so sorry, Nick,” I say.
“Me too, Snowflake.”
We sit in silence, then he takes out his phone and opens a folder with a singular video. He looks up at the spindly branches above us, the strong line of his jaw seeming so much sharper with grief hardening its edge. A lone tear escapes, skating down his cheek before I swipe it away. Tears burn the backs of my eyes, tears I want to shed for him. I don’t; I’d rather be a pillar of strength in the times when he needs something sturdy to lean on. I want to be for him what I never had, what I never allowed myself to ask for.
His chest expands with a deep inhale, then he presses play on the video.
“Nicholas Saint Junior,” Nick’s voice rings in a mockingly scolding tone. He’s holding the camera, chasing a young Juno in what looks like someone’s backyard. Juno’s delighted squeals follow as he runs from his dad, a small digital camera in his hand. A reluctant smile threatens my lips as I watch the video. Various clips of him and his son play one after the other.
He cries silently beside me, never stopping to wipe his own tears. When the video ends, he places the phone face down on his lap. He turns the smooth stone over in his palm while I swipe his tears away; I can’t help myself.
After another moment of silence passes, he hands the stone to me. As I turn it over, I see the inscription written on it.
Nicholas Saint Junior, Beloved Son, 2014-2021.
My lip trembles, and I can’t fight the tears that escape me.
“I used to think I wouldn’t be able to go on, after it happened. I knew I was alive, but I felt dead inside. I wondered if it was worth it to keep breathing,” he explains.
My heart caves in at the idea of the world being without Nicholas Saint and his art and his thoughtful, selfless, loving nature.
“Eventually, I figured that through documenting my grief, I could help someone else out there to work through theirs. That purpose kept me alive for a while, but I have to admit…since its success, I’ve been lost. I start a new project in February, in D.C. But the empty space until then,” he says, trailing off at the end.
I understand what he’s saying too well. I know exactly what it feels like to move through each day feeling like a tourist in your own life. Those moments where there’s nothing to do, no one to carry on mind-numbing conversations with, are the hardest. And people who have never lost someone they loved in a devastating waydon’tunderstand. Grief is this unique kind of pain that leaves holes in your soul, and you never know when the wind of a memory will blow through you — when the echo of the one you lost will whistle.
“I’m still in therapy, I’m working through it,” he continues, “it’s fucking hard, though.”
He looks down at me briefly, double-takes when he sees the tears streaking my face. “Shit,” he says, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
I choke on a laugh. “You’re not supposed to be the one comfortingme,” I reply, looking up at him.
“I never want to be the one to make you cry, for any reason,” he says, kissing the side of my head.
“If kids with cancer don’t make you cry, what will?” The question falls past my lips so easily, and I instantly regret every word. I slap my hand over my mouth, look up at Nick with wide, apologetic eyes.
