Because quiet is the only place I can hear him.
Not Logan.
Pops.
His voice.
His laugh.
The way he said “kiddo” like it was the most important word in the world.
I sit on the bench and stare at the sidewalk in front of me, the cracks in the concrete forming messy little lines. I trace one with my eyes.
If I focus hard enough on tiny things, I can stop thinking about the big ones.
If I keep my grief small, contained, maybe it won’t devour me.
But grief doesn’t work like that.
It seeps.
It waits.
It taps on the inside of your ribs at the most random times and reminds you that you are not in control.
My phone buzzes again.
I pull it out.
Logan: don’t sit at the park bench alone like you’re in a sad movie. i’m coming to get you.
Logan: i’m also bringing contraband.
I frown.
what’s the contraband?
Three dots appear.
Then:
Logan: a milkshake.
A milkshake.
Something so normal it almost makes me angry.
Something Pops would’ve teased us about—you two and your sugar addictions.
Something that makes my throat threaten to close up again.
My fingers curl tighter around my phone.
I don’t text back right away.
Because if I do, I might say something I don’t know how to take back.
Like thank you.
