CHAPTER 36
Penelope
Idon’t know how to help him.
Another week has passed, this one harder than the past six by an order of magnitude. I’d take six more months of Tate’s mouth being wired shut over a single moment of his parents being gone.
No one should have to bury a parent while still in college, but both at the same time... It’s just so unfair.
A wave of fresh tears threatens to spill down my cheeks. All I’ve done for the past seven days is cry.
Tomorrow brings with it December, and the slow climb into the holiday season. Places have already started with the holiday cheer, the decorations, the ads on the radio, there’s no escape.
The funeral was the most moving funeral I’ve ever attended. The Raccoons did an honor guard and lined the path into the church. Their support for Tate over the past week has been overwhelming.
Tate didn’t want to go back to the hockey house, or into the dorms, he didn’t want to stay with either of my parents, and for a hot minute he even said he didn’t want me to stay with him.
We compromised.
We’ve been staying in his room at his parents’ house.
Every night since his parents died, Oliver, Karlya, or one of his teammates have brought us dinner. It’s either been a handmade dish, or they’ve picked up something from somewhere, and delivered it to the house. Some nights, they’ve stayed and eaten with us, a relief pitcher for me, so to speak. Sometimes the three of us sit in silence and watch something on TV, others we play a board game, or I take a shower and a nap. Every day is different, but the support from his chosen family has been there regardless.
Picking out the caskets and music for the service was hard, but sitting in the pews and watching Tate’s eulogy damn near broke my heart. He fell apart, and Artemis and Raffi had to guide him down to sit next to me while Apollo finished reading what Tate had to say.
The image of him crumpling into my arms and sobbing with his whole body will remain etched in my core memories for as long as I live.
Tate’s grief is visceral, tangible, and consuming. It’s weaving its way into the fabric of his future and there’s nothing any of us can do to stop it.
Tate’s upstairs, he went up to shower, just as well, seeing as it’s been a few days. Eloise offered to come over for a few hours today but we’re back at school, Thanksgiving break is over, and I need to find a way to keep on track with my schoolwork.
I have no idea how. How are you supposed to just... go back to normal after something like this?
Dad’s called over every day to check on both of us. Mom’s called too, everyone feels helpless.
Tate’s doing his best. He missed a few days of class this week but he was back this morning, and this evening we agreed we’d work on our next assignments together. Nottogether,together but in each other’s company. He might even feel up to going out to Bitches Brew for an hour, but I won’t push it.
It’s the silence that’s killing me. My vibrant, sarcastic, quick-witted, chatty boyfriend is so quiet it’s creeping me out. He won’t play music, he won’t listen to music, he won’t pick up his guitar, he’s just... existing.
I get that he just lost his parents, but I don’t know how to help. We’ve done some work on his new and improved jaw. I’ve been helping him with his motor control to clean up his chewing and his speech. But it’s not enough.
There’s literally nothing I can do, I can’t bring his parents back, I can’t take away his pain, but every morning I wake up and frantically scroll through a mental list of ideas that might make things just the tiniest bit easier on him.
I come up empty, every time.
A rustle of plastic bags draws my attention away from the blank notebook in front of me. So much for getting the jump on this assignment, I’m so distracted, a typo on the page catches my eye. Apparently I spelled my own name with two ‘n’s. Doesn’t bode well for my homework.
Fuck. Tate comes through the door with arms laden. Large plastic trash bags in both hands, and a third one tucked under his arm. His hair’s unkempt, sweat patches around his collar and armpits, and a streak of dirt across his cheek.
He walks through the dining room, out the back door, and from the sounds of it, tosses the bags in the trunk of the car and slams it shut.
When he comes back in, he chugs what feels like half a gallon of milk straight from the container before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“What are you up to? Need a hand?” Please say yes.
My stomach drops at the shake of his head.
“I’m good. I’m going through Mom and Dad’s clothes, loading them up in bags for Goodwill.”
