“I don’t know. I’m supposed to go back to work on Monday,” I tell her, as if my mediocre job at the marketing agency is the reason I need to stay in London.
“Or,” she drags out the word, “you could not do that and move back home.”
My chest aches at the word “home.” “I don’t know where that is anymore, Chloe.”
She hums and tucks her leg underneath her, turning so she’s facing me. “Jules doesn’t know I’m here,” she admits. “She has school and wedding shit, and I knew that if I told her I was coming, she’d be packed and ready in under five minutes.”
Her admission feels like a sucker punch. I know Jules has obligations and a life outside of my sad little mourning bubble. I also know that the last time we were in the same space, I shouted and pushed her away.
I miss her.
“Yeah. I know. How is she?” I ask after an awkward beat of silence.
“Maybe you should call and ask her.” Her tone holds bite.
“I tried. She didn’t answer.” It’s a crappy response, one so unconvincing that it wouldn’t fool anyone, least of all Chloe. Especially because it isn’t entirely true. The one time I tried, she was in class, and she returned my call immediately, only for me to send her straight to voice mail.
“You tried what, twice?”
“What do you want me to do, Chloe? She didn’t answer.” It’s a stretch, an almost lie, and for the life of me, I don’t know why I’m digging in.
“Why would she?” she asks. “If someone I loved pushed me away as much as you shove her around, I wouldn’t answer your calls, either.”
“Fuck you,” I all but spit because that’s taking it too far.
“No, fuckyou, Alex. It’s not always aboutyou. She’s supposed to be planning her wedding. Herwedding! She almost canceled a venue tour with her future mother-in-law because she was trying to get on a plane to come see you, like, two days after you left. Evenafterall the crappy stuff you said to her.”
“I was hurting!”
“We’reallhurting,” she says just as loud. “I get that it’s worse for you, but that doesn’t mean you get to lash out at people who are just trying to be there for you. You don’t get to do that. Especially not to Jules.”
“I get it, I’m an asshole.”
“No, you’re justactinglike one.”
My eyes start to water, and my throat feels tight. Her words hit hard because I know I’ve been a jerk. My brother is dead, and I’m so angry because I’m stuck here swimming in guilt because I wasn’t there. For the past seven years, I haven’t been there, and I hate myself for it.
She shifts closer and takes one of my hands.
“I’m sorry that Mason is gone. It sucks. And it sucks that I don’t have the words to tell you how much it sucks. But there are people who are choosing to be here for you. Whowantto be. Even when you act like a dick.” I snort because only Chloe can lay it out so simply while bordering the line of loving and mean. She squeezes my hand. “So let us fucking be here for you.”
“I can’t sleep,” I confess. “When I close my eyes, all I see is Mason plucking his stupid guitar or the look on Jules’s face when I…” Everything I want to say seems to get caught in my throat. “If I could go back, I’d do it all differently.”
“You can’t go back.” It isn’t unkind, but it still feels sharp in the way only brutal honestly can feel. “The best you can do is push forward, one day at a time. One minute at a time. It’s going to take some work, but you deserve to be happy.”
Instantly, I’m transported to my brother’s bedroom. I can see his concerned expression and smell his woodsy aftershave.
“She’s happy. I don’t want to ruin that.”
“So you get to stay miserable?”
The memory elicits the tiniest of smiles. “You sound like Mason.”
She lets her head fall to the back of the couch and closes her eyes. “That’s because we talked about it a lot.”
Of all the things she could’ve said, that was not something I expected. I think back, wondering when the hell Chloe and Mason would talk about something like that. About me and my happiness. “You did? I didn’t know that.”
She smiles. “That’s because we didn’t want you to.”
