His silence makes me want to die.Or at the very least, disappear.Something, anything, to remove myself from the single most humiliating moment of my adult life.I shift my weight to retreat – foot already on the top step of the porch, hand reaching for the door—
‘Don’t go.’His voice cuts through the dark, rough and frayed around the edges.I glance back just as Luke’s head tilts, slightly.He looks at me.Really looks at me.
And that’s when I see it.Not anger.Not annoyance.Not regret.
Fear.
It’s the quiet, aching kind of fear that settles behind your ribs and builds a home there.The kind that says,I don’t know how to do this alone.
I go to him.My hand smooths my silk dress instinctively; it’s too crumpled for grief, too formal for comfort.I sit beside him on the bench.Not close enough to touch, just close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body.
He offers me his beer.I take a sip.It’s warm and flat and exactly what I need.
When he takes it back, we sit in respectful silence.
‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he says eventually.
I swallow the tightness in my throat.‘Me too.’
He tilts the bottle towards me again.I shake my head.If I drink more, I’ll either cry or make out with him.Possibly both.
There’s a pause, and then he asks, ‘How’s Dylan?’
I wince.‘We’re not together anymore.’
Luke nods.He takes another long sip, his gaze locked on the dark horizon.I expect him to say something biting next.A joke.A jab.Something dry and deflective because that’s what we do.We fight.
Instead, he exhales – the kind of breath that’s smothered in pure anguish.
‘I thought I had more time,’ he says quietly.‘That’s the part no one warns you about.You always think there’s more time.’
I think I stop breathing.
‘One minute you’re angry at your dad for forgetting to fill up the ute again, and the next you’re standing at his grave, wondering if the last thing you said to him was “Piss off.”’He laughs under his breath, but it’s the saddest sound I’ve ever heard.‘We were supposed to build a fence next week.Just a fence.That’s all.Swearing and yelling at each other over the distance between stumps.He was a stubborn prick, and it used to drive me mad.And now I’d give anything to argue again with the sorry bastard.’His thumb traces the label on the beer bottle as if hoping the answer lay in the fine print.‘You know, he still set Mum’s coffee cup out every morning after she passed.Wouldn’t miss a day.Said the kitchen looked wrong without it.’His voice cracks.He doesn’t hide it.
I reach for his hand without thinking.Not in a romantic way.In a ‘sister wiping away your tears’ kind of way like I used to do for Issy.In the ‘I’ve got you even if you break’ kind of way.
He doesn’t look at me, but he squeezes my hand.Just once.‘I keep walking into rooms expecting him to be there.And then he’s not.And it hits me all over again.Like getting the wind knocked out of you by someone who’s not even here.’A tear slips down his cheek, followed by a second.He swipes them away and looks up at the sky, his bloodshot eyes pleading for the pain to end.
I shift closer to him on the bench.I don’t say anything, just press my side to his and let the silence do what words can’t.He doesn’t pull away.Doesn’t make a joke.He leans into it, just enough to let me know that I’m allowed to be here.Just enough to let me hold some of the weight he’s been pretending not to carry.I can’t imagine what it’s like to lose a parent, let alone both.But I do know what it feels like to carry more than you should, to be handed the sort of responsibility you never asked for.I haven’t lost my parents in the traditional sense.But I’ve spent most of my life grieving the version of them I never got.And that kind of absence tends to leave a jagged scar.One thataches in moments like this, sitting beside someone who’s hurting in a way I don’t fully understand but recognise all the same.
For a long moment, we sit still like that in shared silence.One grief, two bodies.Then, slowly, he turns his head to look at me.I meet his eyes in the dim glow of the porch light.
Something shifts.
‘How long are you staying with Ella?’
I hesitate.‘Just the weekend.’
Luke studies me and then says softly, ‘Thanks for coming.’
My chest tightens.‘I hope I didn’t impose.’
‘You didn’t.’His hand moves – cautiously, testing the weight of the world – and rests over mine.‘I’m glad you’re here.’
And that’s it.The olive branch.The open door.The beginning of something that could matter, if I don’t run from it.
I don’t say anything.But I nod, just as he leans in and kisses me.The kiss is soft at first, tentative, as if he’s waiting to see if I’ll pull away and run like I always do.
