I make my way down the line, touching the stone for my grandfather, Johnny, pausing for a moment before I take a deep breath and make my way to the third pile. Still holding my Aunt Mabel tight to my chest, I pick up the rock from the top of the pile and place it to my lips.
Valerie. My mother.
I close my eyes and choke down the sob that tries to claw its way out of my throat. She died two months before my thirteenth birthday, but my memories of her are strong.
I came out to her when I was twelve, though looking back, I’m sure she knew well before the realization ever hit me over the head. The way she held me, tears in her eyes, not from shame or anger, but because she knew how fucked up the world could be.
Even as the cancer stole her voice, her support for me was loud.
My mother was the first person to tell me that it was okay to be myself.
Ollie was the first person to ever show mehowto be myself.
Ollie presses her shoulder against me as if she knew my thoughts shifted to her. “Tell us what to do."
Her simple offer cracks something open inside my chest. I am, at my core, a man built from strong women. The profound gratitude for their presence, for their unflinching willingness to shoulder this weight with me, floods every part of my soul.
My brilliant, shining girlfriend who sees the world in frames of light, and my fierce, enduring best friend who has always been my anchor.
I would be utterly lost without them.
###
It takes us about half an hour to dig a hole deep enough to bury my aunt’s ashes, and another two hours scouring the forest floor for enough rocks to make a mound we’re all proud of.
Something about seeing all four mounds together hits me harder than I expected.
No one would ever be able to completely fill the hole left by the absence of my mother, but if anyone has ever come close, it was my Aunt Mabel and my Ollie.
My breaths come sharp and uneven. The first tear hits the dirt only a second before a presence kneels down next to me. Ollie.
She doesn’t say anything. She just kneels beside me and pulls me into her. Suddenly, I’m thirteen again, hollowed out and furious, shoved into a new school two months after losing my mom.
That’s when I first saw her, drawing violently in a notebook, covered in safety pins and a scowl that dared anyone to come near her. She looked up, met my eyes, and didn’t look away with pity like everyone else. It felt like she saw my anger and matched it.
The next day, she threw a sketch of my dumb, grieving face onto my desk. It was the first time I felt seen by anyone my age. I had just lost the most important person in my life, and in barges his girl, this terrifying, scary, beautiful girl, who immediately started to fill the hole my mother left behind.
“She would have loved you,” I say, my voice rough. “My mom.”
A sob finally breaks loose from my chest, harsh and ugly. I’m crying for my aunt, for my mom, for all the years of holding in the one thing I’ve always known to be true.
Ollie’s arm goes around my shoulders, solid and real, and I turn into her, burying my face in her neck as I unload years of pent-up frustration and gratitude. I wrap my arms aroundher, holding her so tight it probably hurts, but she doesn’t say anything.
I can feel Kat hovering, giving us this moment as I cling to Ollie, the canvas of her jacket soft against my cheek.
“I’ve got you,” she murmurs into my hair, cradling the back of my head. “You’re not alone. Never alone, remember?”
I lift my head. Her eyes are glistening too, her stubborn jaw tight. All the words Kat said last night, all the feelings I’ve boxed up for over a decade, surge forward.
It’s a thought that lingers too long, like a song stuck on repeat in my head. I’ve spent years carefully constructing walls around that particular truth, brick by brick, because the alternative always felt too messy. Too complicated. Too risky.
I am in love with my best friend, and my girlfriend knew it the whole time.
No longer a thought, but a fact, as solid as the ground beneath us.
I’m in love with Ollie.
My thoughts are racing, but my movements are quicker. My lips slide along her cheek and rest against hers. It’s not gentle or questioning; it’s a confession. Her mouth is soft and yielding, and the world makes perfect sense.
