“Holden.”
“No, seriously. Sorry.”
I’m not going to cry today.
Today has been such a good day, and if I let the tears come, they might not stop. Sometimes, the guilt of knowing I’m living and knowing damn well that’s not the case for him gets me. It’s like the relief, the joy, the happiness, it's all stolen from him. It’s something I’m working on hard in therapy.Working onbeing the keywords here.
“It’s okay. It took me by surprise, but it’s okay. I actually enjoy talking about Nick too.” I sit on the swivel chair and take a sip of my decaf. “And to answer your question, yes and no. I was thinking about things people said that got on my nerves after he died.”
He looks puzzled, riddled, as if he’s searching for answers somewhere in the air.
“It was theI can handle a lotcomment. Before you say it—” I raise my hand “—you didn’t do anything wrong. People used to say I could handle more than they could when I lost him.”
He nods. “Same with me and my family.”
“I know sorry doesn’t make it better, but I’m sorry. It sucks.”
“It does.”
I take another sip, relaxing in my chair. “So no, you didn’t do anything wrong. It just sparked that thought.”
Holden’s shoulders loosen. “Good. Because for a second, I thought I’d ruined your whole afternoon, and I was going to spiral dramatically about it later.”
I snort. “You? Dramatic?”
He places a hand to his chest like he’s been shot. “Beauty, I’ll have you know, I contain multitudes, including a flair for the theatrical when I say something stupid to a pretty woman.”
There it is: the warmth beneath his teasing—again. The way he saysprettyso casually but looks away like he didn’t mean for the truth to slip out.
“Smooth,” I say. “Very subtle.”
He grins into his cup. “I try.”
I take another sip of my drink, calmer now, watching the tension in him settle, only to shift again—and the color of his eyes with it. It’s incredible how they swim with emotion. The other day, when sadness consumed him, they were so dark. When he came over to help at my house, the sympathy filling them made them look green. And now, well, now, they look like dark honey.
“You were talking about your mom and sister earlier,” I say softly. “If you don’t mind me asking, how long ago did you lose them?”
“Five years.”
Together? I think so, but I don’t pry.
His jaw flexes once, gently. “Car accident,” he offers.
I don’t push, letting him continue if he wants; I’ve learned that sometimes, that’s the best way, especially if I want to share. I don’t want to be pushed to do so.
He finally leans forward, elbows on the counter. “My mom…she was the glue to everything. And my sister—she was pure chaos in the best way. Losing them together…” He exhales slowly, eyes dropping to his hands. “It was like someone turnedthe world’s volume all the way down. Quiet. Beyond quiet. Just…empty.”
I place my fingers over his hand, so he knows I’m here. I get that feeling too.
“So the other day, when you asked if I wished I had time with someone I lost again, I meant it when I said yes. I would give what I don’t have for another day with them.”
I nod in agreement. I would too.
“Do you enjoy talking about them, or is it like stabbing a knife in a fresh wound? I’ve heard it's one or the other.”
His face softens in a smile. “I like talking about them, especially with someone who understands and won’t pity me.”
“Oh, I won’t, and I agree. I like talking about him too. It’s almost as if I’m keeping his spirit here.”
