“If I asked you to look after her, would you?” Oliver asked, running his thumb along the length of Aberlour’s forearm.
“No.”
Oliver only hummed his acknowledgement of Aberlour’s refusal, not expressing any surprise in hearing it. Aberlour had never been selfless. Oliver knew that very well. He wouldn’t be a martyr. Not even for Oli.
Oliver said nothing else. He turned over to press his face against Abe’s chest, settling even closer. Abe wrapped both arms around Oliver and squeezed him tightly. He listened as Oliver’s breathing slowed and he relaxed in his arms, lulled to sleep by Abe’s warmth.
Aberlour didn’t sleep that night. He was too busy making every second count by committing everything about the man in his arms to memory.
Chapter 39
September 2019
As he’d known all along, Aberlour gave in to Oliver and went with him to the five-year anniversary celebration.
Grief wasn’t a coat then. It was just like a choke collar, tight around his neck with the leash in the hands of every child, parent, and widow he had to face.
The collar had tightened unbearably by the time he arrived. But he forced himself to smile at Sabine and everyone he met. He repeated the mantra he’d shared so many times with Oliver. One minute at a time. One minute a time.
Sabine had aged beautifully, as he’d known she would. Aberlour took a mental picture for the one who couldn’t, knowing Marcus would have beamed at the sight of her.
“You look beautiful,” Aberlour complimented her as soon as she walked up to him.
Sabine smiled a beautiful, wide smile of welcome.
She was wearing a short white dress with fluttering sleeves. The colour, a stark contrast to the warm brown of her skin, reminded Aberlour of how she’d looked in her wedding dress. Perhaps it was her intention. To remember her husband as she’d loved him best.
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she lied politely.
Aberlour didn’t let her fib bother him. He knew perfectly well what he looked like, and it certainly wasn’t something that would have ever impressed his mother. But, he had made a real effort by dusting off an old suit that had seen better days and was woefully out of fashion. Oliver had snorted with laughter when he’d shown up at his door and proceeded to tease him unmercifully about it, but he’d still gotten a kiss for his efforts. That made it all worthwhile, in his opinion.
“Keep it in your pants,” Oliver scowled teasingly, and Sabine’s smile only grew as she looked down at him. He couldn’t walk very far anymore, and he’d begrudgingly accepted Aberlour’s help. The wheelchair was on loan from the hospital. An ugly greenish-blue thing that didn’t match his suit—Oliver had grumbled quite a bit about that—but Aberlour argued that at least he wouldn’t be out of breath and passing out. Aberlour won that round.
“Thanks for coming,” Sabine told Oliver. He gave a brief nod, the glance between them filled with a level of support and understanding Aberlour steadfastly ignored.
Sabine led them to the backyard where the “event” was being held. Apparently, the wives had teamed up and, although it was being hosted at Sabine’s house, it was a group effort. As he wheeled Oliver forward, he hoped that was truly the case because it sure would have been too much work for any one person.
Sabine’s yard was filled with people. Some Aberlour recognized, most he’d never met. Children ran amuck, screaming, laughing, and running around between bouncy castles and trampolines like they’d entered a free-for-all fair. Adults milled about with drinks in their hands while chatting with each other and watching the kids play. A man stood at the BBQ, flipping burgers and hotdogs, while a woman served potato salad, corn on the cob, and other dishes from the long picnic table. Strings of lights, balloons, and banners had been strung around the yard, along with dozens of bouquets of flowers.
“We didn’t want it to be sad. This is a celebration, not a do over of their funerals,” Sabine said.
Aberlour was impressed with the steadiness of her voice and her ability to project positivity.
“Of course,” Oliver managed to say. Aberlour barely managed to nod.
Sabine kissed Aberlour’s cheek. “I’m going to mingle a little. I’ll let you—” she didn’t finish, simply smiled and left them to their own devices.
Aberlour thanked the gods silently and breathed a huge sigh of relief.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” he said out loud.
Oliver snorted and replied, “That’s my line.”
Aberlour pushed Oliver’s wheelchair around the edge of the crowd so Oliver could say hello and how-are-you-doing to people Aberlour had either never met or didn’t remember. He spotted a few familiar faces, but as soon as they made eye contact with him, Aberlour looked away quickly. He wasn’t ready yet to connect with them. Guilt—which usually sat like an angry hornet’s nest in his stomach—was now everywhere, smothering him under its ever-increasing weight. His hands tightened on the handles of Oli’s wheelchair, and he struggled to swallow. Even to breathe.
“I need a minute,” Aberlour said.
Oliver turned to look up at him, startled to see his stricken expression.
