Over their heads, across the room, I saw Holden. He was watching. Our eyes met.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t signal anything. But for a second, before either of us looked away, I felt the pull of him the same way I always had—that particular gravity, unchanged by everything that had happened between us. Still there. Still stubborn.
He gave a small nod—acknowledgment, nothing more—and turned back to his conversation with Dutch.
And that was the thing I hadn’t expected. Not that he’d changed, but that the change made him harder to hold at arm’s length, not easier.
I left an hour later, presents delivered, birthday wishes exchanged, boys hugged goodbye. Betty caught me at the door and pressed a container of food into my hands.
“You didn’t eat enough,” she said. “Don’t argue with me.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Good.” She held my gaze for a moment—that nurse’s assessment, quick and thorough. Whatever she saw seemed to satisfy her, because she nodded once and let me go.
In the parking lot, I sat in my car for a long time without starting the engine.
The six-month mark approaching. And Holden in there, playing pool with two boys who adored him, carrying his grief without letting it touch them, giving me space I’d asked for and was only now learning to use.
I thought about what Betty had said.She came back to life eventually. Not because anyone convinced her to. Because she felt safe enough to do so.
I wasn’t tired. But I was starting to notice how much effort the careful was taking. I started the car and drove home slowly, the container of Betty’s food on the passenger seat beside me, still warm.
Chapter 31
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— Holden —
Six months.
I woke up sober and present. Four months without a drink. If there was ever a day that would test that, it was this one. Right now, it was just me and the grief, facing each other in the dark of my room at five in the morning while the rest of the compound slept.
Pete had prepared me for this day. We’d talked about it in our sessions, developed strategies for coping with the waves that would come. Journaling. Breathing exercises. Reaching out to brothers when I needed support. I’d written the strategies on a card and put it in my wallet like a man who didn’t trust himself to remember his own name in a crisis, and Pete hadn’t said a word about it.
I got dressed. Made coffee. Drank it standing at the counter, watching the sky lighten through the kitchen window. The coffee was good. I noticed that it was good. Six months ago I couldn’t have told you what anything tasted like.
I drove to the flower shop on Main Street. “Yellow roses?” the woman behind the counter asked. She’d seen me enough times by now to know the order.
“Two bunches today.”
She wrapped them carefully and I drove the truck across town to the cemetery.
Danny’s grave was on the east side, under a young oak that wouldn’t give proper shade for another decade. The headstone was simple — black granite, white letters. The dates underneath, nineteen years apart, that looked wrong no matter how many times I read them. Nineteen years wasn’t enough.
I set the yellow roses against the stone and stood there.
The cemetery was empty at this hour. It had become something I needed the way I needed Pete’s sessions and the grief group on Tuesdays. A place to be honest without worrying about what my face was doing.
“Six months, kid.” My voice sounded strange in the quiet. “Half a year. Doesn’t feel like it. Feels like last week and also like it’s always been this way.”
The stone didn’t answer. I hadn’t expected it to.
“I’m sober. Still. Pete says that’s worth acknowledging, so—I’m acknowledging it.” I shoved my hands in my pockets. “I almost didn’t make it last month. There was a night after a bad run debrief where the bottle was right there and I could taste it before I’d even touched it. Called Colt instead. Sat on the phone with him for forty minutes while he told me about Luca’s science project. Didn’t hang up until the wanting passed.”
A bird landed on the branch above the headstone. Looked at me. Left.
“The boys turned eight last week. Knox never stops talking now. Luca still looks at you like he’s deciding whether you’re worth his time. Colt says he got that from Lilac. Lilac says it’s pure Colt.” I paused. “Colt went overboard again. Not as bad as last year, but he had a face painter and enough food for the whole town. Lilac’s about to pop—twins, if you can believe it. Colt’s losing his mind about it. In a good way.”
