Mary fiddles with her glass on the table for a moment, then smiles and ignores the sudden weight in the room. “You guys should go see your mom, Bowen. I bet she was thrilled when you showed up.”
The memory of walking into my mom's for the first time in years yesterday is something I don't think I'll ever forget. Setting my keys in the same blue fish dish that Brett made her in school when we were in third grade, seeing the same pictures hanging. It smelled the same but felt fractured. Hollow. Quiet where it used to be loud. When I called out for her, she came into the room with tears already rolling down her face.
“Yeah,” Kit whispers, squeezing my hand so hard it hurts. His face is pale, but he tries to smile when he finds me watching him. “Yeah, let's go see your mom.”
Kit
The last time I walked into the Briggs' house, I had plans to sleep over with my best friend. He was so damn excited to reclaim a sliver of our childhood. Shrek locked and loaded, candy prepared. Life was already pulling us apart, but Brett was going to hold on with both hands and gritted teeth.
He was dead by morning.
My feet feel like they're a thousand pounds, and my very soul feels like it's writhing in the pits of my stomach.
Bowen has been standing next to me, thumb rubbing steady circles on my hand while I stare at the door. I don't think we've let go since I grabbed his hand on the stairs before breakfast. It's my lifeline now.
“He's not in there,” I finally murmur.
Bowen exhales slowly, and I see him shake his head in my periphery. “No, baby, he's not.”
I nod.
I'm okay.
“How did you do it?” I ask, squeezing his hand. “Go in there, I mean.”
Bowen shrugs, somehow a gentle movement. I know he's being soft for me, but his hand squeezes mine just as tightly. “I had no choice. I lived here. My mom was here, and I wasn't going to leave her here all alone. I chose to let his presence everywhere feel comforting instead of haunting.” He sighs. “Doesn't mean it was easy.”
I nod again. “You're strong, Bowen. So fucking strong. I never told you that. I should have.”
Suddenly, the door swings open, and I stumble over into Bowen.
Sheila looks at me with tears in her eyes and chokes on a laugh. “I tried to give you a minute to cut the crap, but I figured if I didn't hurry this along, you'd become one with the porch mat.”
Her blue eyes are radiant. Not haunted. Not full of pain and sorrow. They're her son's eyes. Brett's laugh is held in those depths, and I burst into tears, dragging Bowen forward with me so I can wrap his mom in my arms. It turns into a semi-awkward tangle until Bowen huffs a laugh and turns it into a group hug, because I refuse to let go of his hand.
Brett gave the best hugs because he learned how from his mom. Sheila may be small, but she's fierce. Her arms hold you in a way that lets you know she means it. Brett got a lot of his personality from her, and maybe that’s part of the reason I didn't reach out.
Another reason is the same reason I wouldn't look at Bowen. I was scared shitless that some part of her blamed me like I blamed myself.
But there is none of that in the way she looks at me when I finally pull back. Just the same love that she's always shown me. “You look so good, Kit.” And like her other son, Sheila pushes my hair back and ruffles the strands. “Come in, come in. I bought this new tea that I think you'll like.” Like Brett, Sheila has a way of worming through the cracks and fissures of a person. You don't even realize she's pulled your entire focus until you'resitting in a living room you haven't seen in five years and didn't even have a freak out on the way in.
“So,” she says, changing gears from talking about her vegetable garden this year. Bowen groans from his spot next to me, and I smirk. Sheila is waggling her eyebrows at us. “About damn time you two removed your heads from your asses.”
“Ma, can we not?” Bowen sighs.
I sputter over a laugh. “What do you mean?”
She throws her hands up and slaps them against her jean-clad thighs. “It was obvious to everyone but you two, apparently.”
I glance over at Bowen, and he looks back at me. The soft squeeze feels a lot like a tiny apology. I rub my thumb over the back of his hand. It's okay.
“Brett would have been so happy,” Sheila says, soft and wistful. “You know how many interventions that boy planned? He once even considered the morality of stealing your phone, Kit, to confess your feelings to Bowen over text. He was positive that Bowen would crack then.” She gives her son a warm but exasperated look. “It's hard not being a nosy mom.”
“You are a nosy mom,” Bowen grumbles. But then he snorts. “Brett was the most nosy. Like a preening, annoying mother hen.”
Sheila's eyes are shiny. “He loved you both so much.”
It used to feel like a sword twisting in my guts to hear his name out loud. I couldn't even write it in my letters. I couldn't bear speaking it myself. Not for a long time. Like if we didn't talk about it, it didn't happen. That if we didn't speak his name, the pain wasn't there.
