The room settles into stillness again, the kind that feels like a held breath. And then it creeps in—that dull ache in my chest. The one I keep shoving back down, pretending I’m brave enough to handle all of this without breaking.
“I don’t know how to be single,” I whisper, staring at the ceiling like it might hold the answer.
Skye shifts beside me, her voice calm. “You don’t have to know yet. Right now, just be free.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“I’m scared I won’t know how to exist without him.”
“You will.”
My voice breaks a little. “But what if I miss him so much I forget why I left?”
The bed shifts slightly as she turns toward me. “Then I’ll remind you.”
Of course she will. Her reassurance is simple. Solid. No hesitation.
Skye doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t need to.
And finally—finally—I fall asleep.
Not without fear of the future, but with the calming reassurance that no matter what happens, at least I’ll have my friends at my side to help me through it.
SEVENTEEN
LEO
Saturday carriesthe kind of chill that sneaks into your lungs and makes every breath feel sharper than it should. Not winter yet, not really, but the air has shifted. The last of the cottonwoods along George and Linda’s street are more branch than leaf, the few stragglers clinging dry and curled, rattling like brittle paper when the breeze stirs them. The sky is a hard, cloudless blue, sunlight bright but cold, throwing everything into sharp relief.
I should’ve known something was wrong earlier this week. Linda canceled dinner Tuesday, then again on Thursday, said George wasn’t feeling well. Both times I offered to stop by anyway, just to sit with him, watch a game, keep him company. Both times she told me, “Not a good time, honey. He needs rest.”
Saturdays, though… Saturdays never need planning. Saturdays are automatic. Me walking in with a six-pack, George in his recliner, hockey already queued up, him swearing that offsides wasn’t offsides because back in ’86 the refs called it with “common damn sense.” That’s the rhythm we keep.
I don’t bring the six-pack today.
I stand on their porch half a beat too long, cold biting the tips of my ears, empty-handed and pretending that’s why my chest feelstight. I knock anyway—one knuckle rap out of habit, but I don’t wait. I push the door open like I always do and call, “It’s me.”
Linda is already in the living room. She turns, that soft smile she keeps for me stitched to a face that hasn’t slept. Her lipstick is on; her eyes are tired underneath it. “Hi, sweetheart. Come in.”
The heat is up too high. The house feels sealed—like the air hasn’t changed out in a while. The recliner is angled at the TV the exact way George likes it. The afghan is folded. The remote is on the side table, lined up with his reading glasses. Everything is where it should be—except him.
My stomach bottoms out.
Linda folds her hands in front of her and steps around the recliner, into the entryway where I’m still standing. “He’s in bed,” she says. “It’s been… a week.”
I nod because my throat is occupied trying to keep it together. “Can I?—?”
“Of course.” She reaches for my forearm and squeezes, the way she has since I was twenty-two and scared of my first real Thanksgiving with her family. “He’s awake. He’ll be glad you’re here.”
The hallway creaks under my shoes. The frames along the wall catch the light—weddings, graduations, a photo of me and George at a hockey game with foam fingers and a stupid-thick pretzel. Stephanie and Aaron on their wedding day. My jaw tightens, then lets go. Not today. Today isn’t for that.
I nudge the bedroom door open.
George is propped on pillows, smaller than last week, the angles of his face sharper. An IV line curls from his arm to a bag that catches the afternoon light, another line loops to a nasal cannula resting along his upper lip, the tubing glinting against weathered skin. The oxygen mask is clipped to the bedrail, waiting for when he wants it. The Avalanche are on the TV mounted opposite—the Wednesday rerun—crowd noise low, commentators more hum than words.
He sees me and lifts a hand with all the bravado he canmuster. “It’s just fluids, son. Don’t be such a bitch about it.” His voice is gravelly but amused. “I’m not dead yet. You can cry when the morphine comes, but that won’t be for at least a month.”
