“I—” he broke off, discovering suddenly that there were some tears and sobs left in him after all, breaking his voice and heart into pieces. “Anything. I’d have done anything.”
She shushed him and petted his hair and smiled against his head.
“He’d have loved this sob fest,” she said shakily.
“Soft motherfucker,” Aberlour agreed.
“Pansy,” she replied.
“Pussy,” he responded.
“Little bitch boy who liked to cry,” she said challengingly, continuing to hold him tightly as he fought to hold back his sobs.
“Emotional faggot,” he replied, which was just far enough along the line of insults that it made her laugh.
They finally drew apart, neither of them saying anything as they watched the party carrying on as though nothing had happened.
Sabine hooked her pinky around his after a minute and gave it a shake.
“He’d have loved this,” Aberlour said, echoing her previous statement.
She merely hummed in agreement.
“Are you—have you talked about the after?”
Aberlour had thought it was over. How foolish of him.
“The after?” He echoed, mystified.
“The after,” she repeated, nodding towards Oliver. She was biting her bottom lip, looking apologetic even as she asked.
“Everything’s already set up with his wife. The will, funeral, all that’s done,” he said, still confused.
“No,” she said, gently, shaking her head. “Your after, Abe. What will you do?”
Aberlour shook his head. He cleared his throat and looked away, afraid she’d see clear through him if he looked into her eyes.
“There is no after,” he said. “There was a before, a now, and then there will be—” he shrugged, like it didn’t matter, like it didn’t exist. “Then I’ll wait.”
“Wait?” she asked, frowning.
“For my turn.”
The seconds stretched by while she said nothing. Then she laced her fingers in his and squeezed. Hard. Harder than she seemed capable of.
“Then we can wait together,” she responded with a sad smile and, for some reason, Aberlour believed her.
The gargoyle sat alone on its little shelf. Aberlour hadn’t noticed it until now. He’d been too busy with the kids and the party, but he saw it now. It hadn’t changed. It was just as ugly as he remembered. Its deep-set, empty eyes stared back at him. Before, when he’d been cocky and young, they’d seemed to challenge him. The bulbous orbs baiting him into yet another contest. He’d been so dumb then. He’d answered its call and pretended to be confident—he wondered if the damned thing could see right through him now.
He didn’t remember the last contest. Probably something stupid. When hadn’t they been? He wished he could remember. If Aberlour had known at the time that it would be their last, he’d have committed every second to memory. How many things had he taken for granted in the name of cocky youth?
“I blamed you,” Aberlour said, because honesty had been the theme of the day.
“For convincing you not to take the shot,” Oliver replied with a nod of agreement.
“For lying,” Aberlour corrected.
The fireworks were nearly over, and they’d retreated indoors. Just the two of them. Like good little PTSD vets. They weren’t exactly triggered by them, but the day had been hard enough without them having to test their limits. To be on the safe side, they’d taken refuge in Sabine’s living room, and so had the gargoyle, apparently. He wondered if Sabine knew what it was. Why they’d had it. He wondered whyshekept it.
