“They’re for Jackson too. I get a new one every year,” he says after a moment, his voice quiet in the room’s stillness. “On the anniversary of his death.”
The admission makes my hand still, but he continues before I can speak, “Each one means something different. Memories or inside jokes or things he loved.” His fingers find mine, guiding them to various designs. “This one’s for the constellation he always pointed out in the sky that he never got right. This is for the truck he was restoring. This is for the summer we all learned to swim in the lake.”
My throat tightens as I recognize the memories he’s preserved in ink and skin. Images I recognize from our shared past, and moments I wasn’t there to commemorate with him. Twelve years of grief marked in permanent lines while I was away chasing the spotlight and trying to outrun my own loss.
I trace the palm of his hand with my fingers, noticing a tattoo for the first time.
“And this one?” I ask, touching the design on his wrist that looks like a worn leather band. He tenses slightly, but he doesn’t pull away.
“That was the first one,” he says, voice rougher now. “He had a leather bracelet he never took off. After the accident, I asked about it, but it was never found. The police said it probably got caught on something and snapped off.”
I kiss his forehead and then turn slightly so I can reach the drawer in my bedside table to retrieve the most precious thing I own.
Taylen’s breath catches as I unwrap it carefully, revealing the worn leather darkened with age and wear. The bracelet looks smaller than I remember, though the craftsmanship still shows in every careful stitch.
“How…?” Taylen’s voice breaks on the word, his eyes fixed on the familiar band. “Is it really…?”
“He gave it to me,” I admit quietly, watching emotion play across his features. “Last time I saw him. He joked that I didn’t come home often enough, and one day, I’d forget about him. He didn’t want that.” The sound that comes out of my throat is like a weird guttural laugh that sounds foreign even to me. “Like I would forget my best friend who was like a brother to me.”
Taylen’s fingers hover over the leather, trembling slightly but not quite touching.
“He was everything,” I continue, words spilling out. “The person who grew up with me, the one I came out to beforeanyone else. The one who encouraged my songwriting, told me singing was the coolest thing.”
Tears gather in Taylen’s eyes. My throat feels tight, and I’m hanging by a thread. I haven’t spoken about Jackson since he died, and now I realize Taylen and I have both been grieving in our own way. When he finally touches the bracelet, his fingertips barely brush the worn surface, as though he's afraid it might disappear. Then, suddenly, he’s kissing me, brief and hard, before turning away.
I watch him swing his legs over the bed’s edge, his broad back like a wall between us. “Please stay…for dinner?” I offer, trying desperately to keep my voice steady. “I was cooking before you arrived…”
“Can’t.” The word comes out clipped, final. He stands and begins gathering his scattered clothing. I stay silent as he dresses, watching him rebuild his walls piece by piece, and hopeless to stop it from happening.
At the door, he pauses, glancing back with an expression I can’t read. Then he’s gone, footsteps fading down the hall. The bracelet sits heavy in my palm.
Losing my best friend broke me, but losing Taylen will obliterate me.
I put the bracelet back in its resting place as Gouta’s head peeks through the open door to my room.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll fix it,” I say, hoping it’s not another lie.
18
TAYLEN
The bellsabove Noëlle’s Bakery door chime as I shoulder my way inside, arms straining under stacked delivery boxes. As soon as I’m through, I’m met with the scent of Christmas spices: cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice, and orange.
“Taylen!” Noëlle’s voice carries over the hiss of espresso machines and murmur of morning customers. “Can you drop those in the kitchen for me, honey?” She emerges from behind the counter, her floral-patterned apron dusted with flour. “Let me finish with this customer, and I’ll give you a hand.”
“I’ll swap your help for a coffee,” I say, moving around the counter toward the kitchen at the back.
“Sure thing, honey.”
It takes three back-to-back trips to my truck to offload the boxes Noëlle has on a regular order. With every journey, my stomach reminds me it would be a good idea to have one of Noëlle’s amazing pastries.
“You look terrible,” she says, inspecting the delivery boxes. “When’s the last time you slept properly?” Her eyes narrow as she studies my face, probably cataloging the dark circles and stubble I couldn’t be bothered to deal with this morning.
I force a smile that feels more like a grimace. “Been busy with festival prep. Anyway, I got you the usual applesauce and preserves,” I add quickly, gesturing to the boxes before she can press further. “Plus some of the experimental cider varieties you wanted to try.”
“You are the bestest,” she says, already lifting lids to inspect the contents. But her eyes keep darting to my face. “The Christmas Festival relocation must be keeping you running,” she says carefully. “Such short notice, having to coordinate with the Hall property…everyone in town is talking about it.”
My belly churns at her mention of the Hall name. “Something like that.” The words come out clipped, earning another worried look from Noëlle.
