“You don’t need to worry about me,” I say, my tone hardening. “It doesn’t matter what I’m feeling. She’s the one we should care about.”
“We care about you too, bro,” David says, frowning. “There’s no use in pretending that you didn’t also go through somethingfucking horrible. We have room to care for both of you. You just have to let us.”
“It’s okay to admit if you’re struggling, Jack,” Griffin adds. “It kills me to think that you’re carrying what happened by yourself, the same way it kills you to think that Abby might be lonely.”
I don’t want to have this conversation. We haven’t had it for a reason. I can’t even get close to the subject without flashbacks ripping painfully through my body.
“C’mon man, stay with us. Don’t do this, you gotta fight.”
“I’m fine, really,” I say, shaking the memory from my head. “I’m dealing with it.”
Griffin stares at me, looking troubled, but he doesn’t push. He knows better. We both do–pushing me about it will just make me want to talk about it even less. It’s always been like that.
But he’s going to make me talk about it eventually. Being known so well is a real pain in the ass sometimes.
***
The beeping of the microwave overlaps with the start of the show intro, and I yank the bag out, burning my fingers in the process.
"Jack, hurry up! You're missing it!" Abby shouts from the living room.
"I'm working on it!" I holler back, haphazardly dumping the popcorn into a large bowl, making a mess that is definitely a problem for later. I rush into the room, launching myself onto the couch and colliding with Abby, spilling popcorn over us both as Jesse Palmer begins his season-opening monologue.
"I'm so fucking excited," she says, her voice muffled by the fistful of popcorn she just shoved in her mouth. "God, I missed reality TV."
For ages, me, Abby, and Aaron measured our years not by the seasons, but by which reality show we're watching. Everythingfrom Survivor to The Real Housewives (Salt Lake City is the best one, hands down)to Dancing With The Stars—if there's any amount of drama, we're there.
"Remember when Aaron damn near broke the TV throwing the remote when Hannah picked Jed over Tyler?" I say, grinning at the memory.
"Oh, he was so mad," she gasps. "I'd never seen him that heated about anything before."
"But that was nothing compared toyouwhen Jen Shah got arrested," I say. "I think you were more excited about that than your wedding day."
"Shah-mazing is still in my regular vocabulary," she says. "I wish I could send her flowers to thank her."
"I'll never get over the fact that both of your hall passes is Jeff Probst," I chuckle, shaking my head. "Aaron might have loved that man more than you."
"And he's right," she laughs. "That's the correct opinion."
We fall into comfortable silence, watching as two dozen sparkle-clad women pour out of one limousine after another in the hopes of finding the love of their life.
"I wish he were here," she says quietly.
"Me too," I reply gently, reaching over to grab her hand. "Me too."
"Thank you," she says, her eyes finding mine.
"For what?" I ask.
"For talking about him like a normal person," she says, turning her attention back to the TV. "People are always so scared to bring him up, like it might break me."
"The last thing you are is breakable," I say firmly. "We're not taught how to deal with grief. It's one of our biggest flaws as a society. We just pretend it doesn't happen, and avoid thinking about it at all costs. But I don't want to avoid thinking about Aaron, I want to remember my friend."
"You were the most incredible friend to him," she says, looking at me again. "To both of us. I know how much it would mean to him that you've been here, even for something as simple as watching reality TV. He'd be glad we're keeping the tradition alive."
"Speaking of traditions, I have a confession," I say sheepishly. "Don't make fun of me."
"You know I can't promise that," she teases.
