I wrap one arm around her shoulders, spreading my legs to make space for her to sit between them. Her face falls into my neck, hand knotting in the fabric of my shirt. I don’t know what else to do except hush her choked sobs and brush my fingers through her hair.
I think the hardest part of grief is that it’s not only unpredictable but unrelenting. No matter how much time passes, it never goes away. You’re encouraged to move through it and search for some semblance of normal, but nobody talks about the way you’re forced to do so while constantly tiptoeing around triggers for the rest of your life.
Something so simple like finding a book they were reading, or seeing an ad for their favorite cereal brand, hearing someone recommend their favorite movie—it can send you into an unexpected spiral, no matter how much time has passed.
It’s impossible to plan for these moments, because some days we’re strong and we wade through them like they’re nothing more than a rough gust of wind. Other times, we’re hit with a hurricane of agony, and no amount of shelter can shield us from the destruction.
“Do you remember that fantasy show he loved?” I ask hoarsely, working to keep my tone steady and gentle. “The one that took us all by surprise because he hated dragons and sorcerers and all that shit.”
“He liked it because he thought that one actress was hot,” she murmurs against my chest, and I rumble a low laugh at the words.
“Right.” I nod, rubbing her back. “I know you didn’t watch it, but the series ended a couple of years ago. I had no idea until I saw an ad for the finale come across the television oneday.” A stinging sensation begins to clog my throat, and I work to swallow it down, but it doesn’t stop my voice from trembling as I continue, “I had a complete breakdown that day. I canceled all my appointments and stayed home to binge the entire final season. I watched the finale when it premiered that night and…” I choke on a laugh, feeling tears slip down my cheeks. “It was fucking terrible. The whole show was ruined in that final season. He would’ve been so pissed.”
Elena lifts her head, blinking through tears. Her brows knit when she realizes I’m crying, too, and she silently lifts a hand to wipe them from my face.
“I didn’t see it coming. I had been okay for months. No night terrors or panic attacks. I’d stopped seeing him in my head every time I closed my eyes…I thought I was starting to heal.” I sigh. “But that one ad, that one trigger, it sent me down a dark spiral. I missed him a lot that day, and when I was done watching it, I only missed him more. I was angry at the television show, angry at the producers and actors and directors. It felt like they were doing him a disservice, as misplaced as that anger might sound.”
I cup her face and wipe away her tears too. “That night I sat outside on the back porch, and for the first time since he died, I… I just talked to him. I told him all about the ending of the show and how terrible it was. I told him how much I missed him, and how pissed off I was at our parents for the way they treat me now. Told him how much I was missing you,” I admit, brushing her hair away from her face. “You can talk to him, too, you know?”
Her eyes mist over with a distant, contemplative expression before she responds with a shallow shake of her head, murmuring, “I don’t think he’d want to hear from me.”
“How could you ever think that, Elena?” I ask, tightening my hold on her thigh just slightly, drawing her attention back to the room—back to me. “What happened that morning?”
We’ve never talked about it, the morning that he died. The conversation I know he had with her just before he confronted me at the beach, though I don’t know the details of it. I’ve never told her about the last words I spoke to him, either, or what it felt like to realize he’d disappeared from the water, the terror of watching him be pulled from it minutes too late.
That’s not something I’ll ever share with anyone. That is a horror to harbor on my own. I wouldn’t force the terror of that vision onto another person.
She lifts her gaze, tortured espresso-colored eyes slicing through me. “I… I can’t.”
“Someday, will you?” I ask. “Tell me everything?”
I don’t know how we’ll ever make it through this—whatever this is—if she doesn’t.
She nods against my chest.
“Come sit outside with me.” I gently nudge her to sit up, rising to my feet behind her before I reach out my hand. To my surprise, she takes it, allowing me to haul her up too. “You don’t have to talk to him directly if you don’t want to, but you can talk to me. Tell me something you’d like him to know, even if it’s simple, even if it’s pointless.”
I lead her through the kitchen and out the back door. A broad deck leads down into the overgrown lawn. I don’t maintain the space out here much, other than the rose bushes I planted along the back fence when I first moved in. Lights are strung around the deck, and two lounge chairs sit side-by-side. I lie on one, patting the other beside me. Instead, she crawls right into my lap, pressing her back to my chest.
It’s dark, the April air breezy and balmy, though the clear night gives way for a perfect view of the stars. “Sometimes, I think that if I’m outside, it’s easier for him to hear me,” I whisper against her neck. “I’m sure he’d love to listen to your voice.”
She drops her face into her hands, overcome with emotion again. I let her cry it out, keeping my arms tight around her and running a soothing hand over her back. She doesn’t like to cry, period, but she especially hates allowing other people to see it. I learned over the years that it’s best to let Elena sit with her pain for a second. She bottles up her emotions, and when they break, they burst. She needs time to wade through them, or she’ll drown within them.
I’ve held her like this a million times, letting her soak my chest with tears for another man. My own brother. I used to wonder if we’d ever escape it, if it would ever cease. I used to be petrified of the idea that she’d be crying on my shoulder over him for the rest of her life.
Now, I know for certain that she will. Not every moment or every day, but we’ll spend the rest of our lives warring with our grief, and somehow, I find comfort in that knowledge. Maybe all those tears before were preparation for this. For all the future heartache she’d need me to soothe, and maybe a part of her won’t ever stop loving someone else, but I guess I’m happy that it’s him. That he was loved that way. And I’m happy it’s me, that I get to offer her solace in all of it.
I think I understand it better now. Now that I know what it’s like to lose him too.
“I feel guilty for crying to you when I’m missing him.” She lets out a shuddering sigh.
“Don’t,” I rasp, choking on my own tears. “I miss him too.”
“Do you think…if he can hear us, can he see us?” She tilts her head, looking at me. “Do you think he hates to see us touching like this? I feel guilty about that, too, but I don’t want to be apart from you.”
“He wasn’t a stranger to my drying of your tears. He knew how you liked to be held. He knew you felt safest with me. I think he’d be glad to see that you’re finally done battling this onyour own.” I kiss the top of her head. “How many times have you broken down like this and forced yourself to bear it alone?”
“Felt like what I deserved.” She shrugs. “Sometimes I stop myself in moments of happiness, or when I begin to feel like I’m living again, because I remember that he’s dead.” Elena’s voice breaks on the word. “Why should I get to move on—experience joy—when he can’t? When I was responsible for so much of the darkness in his final moments?”
