“Take your time, Collins.” She says quietly.
“Around nine-thirty, Jordan let Mom and Dad know he was headed home. The party was about twenty minutes away. He wasn’t home by ten, then Dad’s phone started ringing, which was weird for a Friday night. It was our local Sheriff’s office calling and asking my dad to meet them somewhere. The officer told Dad to leave Mom and me home, but with the way my dad was breathing and his attempts to hold back tears, we refused. I think we both knew…” I stop again, my throat closing up, eyes burning. I rub my sternum aggressively, trying to alleviate the returning hurt.
“I think we both knew that Jordan was in bad condition or gone.” When I blink, tears begin to freely fall down my face, and I find myself choking on air.
“Collins, hey, breathe. You’re okay.” Harley’s voice is closer now, her weight in my lap, hands gripping my face as she tries to calm me. I don’t even recall making space for her there. “You don’t have to tell me anymore if you don’t want to. I’m sorry for pushing you.”
I find myself wrapping my arms around her, leaning back into my chair, and taking deep, steadying breaths. For a fewminutes, we just hold each other as I center myself back into this moment with her here.
“I—”
“You don’t have to.” She maintains.
“I want to. You need to understand why I reacted the way I did last night. Thank you for giving me a minute to collect myself.”
“I’m right here, and you can pause whenever you need to.” Her hand rubs reassuring circles on my arm.
“Dad drove us to the scene. We all hopped out of the car, and what we saw… I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, Harls. The jeep was crumpled into a ball of metal, there was a flipped semi, engine oil mixed with the smells of gasoline and smoke. The man who took him away from us… He had been drinking on his route, and his semi demolished the jeep. It killed Jordan instantly, I guess I’m glad he didn’t suffer. The man stood there, trying to apologize, but all I saw was red. If there hadn’t been police to stop me, I would’ve put my fist into his face. I think they saw how angry I was before the sadness kicked in and pulled me away from him. I… Last night. It took me right back to that night. I thought I was going to lose my best friend all over again.” I don’t care that I just admitted so much to her; it feels like a ton of weight has been lifted off my chest. It feels secure and right to share this memory with Harley.
Harley takes in my words for a minute before speaking, “I’m so sorry you went through that. I can understand why you reacted the way you did last night. I was just really worried about you after… Well, all of it.”
“I know, and I should’ve said something last night.”
“No, you didn’t owe me anything. I’m glad you felt safe enough to share that with me though.” She leans further into me, letting our bodies relax into each other. “How are your parents?”
I breathe out, “Honestly, okay, I guess. I don’t see them much. When we lost Jordan, I think they lost two sons. They couldn’t look at me without seeing him, and we autopiloted being a family until I moved out to start college. We talk now and again, but we aren’t nearly as close.”
“Do you miss them?”
“Yes and no. I think it opens up the wound of Jordan when I’m around them; they don’t love me the same way they used to.”
“Have you considered talking to them about it?” She asks, the counselor side of her beginning to show. It doesn’t bother me. I haven’t spoken to anyone about this since we did our grief counseling right after Jordan passed.
“I tried… Back when we had grief sessions as a family and I felt like my parents were parenting me robotically. It didn’t necessarily change anything. Since then, it just hasn’t felt worth it.” I shrug it off, pain whirling in my chest.
After a quiet moment, I ask, “Will it always be this hard to talk about?”
Harley’s hand has moved to my head, gently running her fingers through my curls as she speaks, “Do you want the mental health counselor answer or the Harley answer?”
“Hmm, mental health,” I answer after pondering for a moment. I feel like I’ve gotten the Harley response. I wonder what sage advice she’ll have next.
“So the mental health professional would tell you that grief looks different for everyone. That you can’t focus on if it will get easier, they might even introduce you to the button theory.”
“Tell me more about this button theory.” Genuinely interested in the knowledge she’s about to drop on me.
“Are you sure? You’re opening a can of worms for me to get on a soap box here.” She chuckles, her hand still mindlessly moving in my hair.
“One hundred percent. I want to know more about it.”
I look up to see her eyes light up just a bit before she starts talking, “Sorry, I’m not excited to have to talk about grief with you. Benji was never interested in hearing about my schooling or work, so it’s just nice… I guess to be able to talk about it and have someone who wants to listen.”
“I’m not him.” It slips out so fast, her touch faltering for a moment.
“I know you aren’t. So, anyway the button theory, imagine that grief is a box, and within that box is a button and a ball. The button never moves. When you first experience grief, the ball takes up the entire box, constantly pushing the pain button. As time passes, the ball shrinks in size, but it’s always going to be there. It will just push the pain button less frequently—it has no rhyme or reason. It could happen while you’re eating a bowl of cereal, or it could be triggered by a memory. The grief never leaves, itmightget easier to talk about, but it’s still there.”
I stare at her, awestruck, for a moment. Taking in her round cheekbones, full, pouty lips, and hazel eyes as she waits for a response. Her beauty is radiant, but her brain does something else for me entirely.
“Thank you, that makes a lot of sense.” I can’t formulate any other response. My brain swirling with too many conflicting thoughts to carry this conversation. The one thing I do know is that I’m down way worse for Harley Wheeler than I initially thought.
