Page 124 of In Your Wake

Spaced out, he looks at me confused, but then nods, squeezing my hand. Without releasing it, we head upstairs. There’s no reason he can’t do this alone, but I think he knows I understand his need to have me by his side and won’t judge.

My hand looks so tiny in his big one, and I recall the countless times he comforted me just by holding it. Back when no matter how grim things were, we knew exactly what to say to lighten the mood.

But today, I can’t come up with the right words.

We step into his bedroom, but he stops as if hitting a wall. I release his hand and open the closet, pulling out his suitcase where I figured it would be. I set it down on the bed, then open his dresser drawers to get some of his clothes. A wave of familiarity spreads over me when I see that he still sorts them the same way—T-shirts in one drawer, pants in another, socks and underwear in the top. I pack some items in the case, enough for a few days. His steady gaze is locked on me the entire time, but I’m not too sure he’s aware he’s staring.

Then, I hear him shuffle across the room and sink onto his bed, dropping his head into his hands. “Max, I’m so sorry.”

I stop what I’m doing and sit beside him. “What are you apologizing for?”

“I should have stayed. I should have been patient and listened to you.” He takes a deep, shaky breath, then brings his eyes up to meet mine. The desperate regret in his stare reaches deep inside me to a part only he’s ever had access to, and it burns, like an old wound being scratched open. But it’s a pain I’m all too willing to suffer.

“Don’t apologize.” I bring his hand into my lap. “You don’t need to worry about any of that now.”

“But I do. I shouldn’t have waited this long to—” Again, as if hitting something impenetrable, he stops.

There’s something in his hesitation that makes me imagine the things he’s not saying. Expecting the words I’m sure I’m not ready to hear. I’m dizzy and realize I’m holding my breath.

Worry and fear flood his eyes, and he rips his gaze away. “To come back to Oakwhite,” he continues. “Dad deserved more from me.” A tear slides down his cheek. “I let him down.”

Feeling as if I’ve been sucker-punched, I shove my stupid disappointment to the back of my mind. I wipe his cheek with my thumb, then run my arms around his chest, burying my face into it. “That’s not true. He was so proud of you.”

Mitch scoffs. “No, he wasn’t. I let him down, like I let everyone else down. Like I let you down. All because I was scared and couldn’t deal.”

“And I could have done a million things differently, too, Mitch. I could have been a better friend and been honest from the get-go. I could have insisted on clearing things up. I knew where you were all along. I could have fought to get it all back.”

He grips me by the shoulders and pushes me away, keeping me at arm’s length. “None of that was your fault.”

It’s my turn to scoff. “And it wasn’t yours, either.”

He slides off the bed, dropping to his knees at my feet and takes my hands. Minutes tick by. We stare at each other, trying to figure out what still needs to be said, but knowing we’re both too afraid to say the words.

Without dropping his gaze, I lift his hands to my mouth and feather my lips across his knuckles. The caress turns into a soft kiss on each knuckle, then more along the tops of his hands.

I flip them over, kissing his wrists, kissing his palms, the curve between his thumb and forefinger, treating each millimeter of his skin as if it’s thirsty for affection. These hands I’ve dreamed of holding for so long it hurts. Hands I’d do anything to have against my skin, making me feel right again, letting us forget the pain.

Every few times my lips touch his skin, he sniffles, but when a tear hits his hand, I glance up.

“Stop,” he says, pulling away.

I cradle his face, then kiss the tears on his cheeks.

“Stop,” he repeats, only this time the word is hushed, as if he’s forcing it out.

“Shh,” I say, brushing my lips over his.

“I said stop, Maxine.” He shoves away from me, stands up, and rakes his fingers through his hair.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry. This isn’t your fault. This is… Damn it!” His voice bounces off the walls.

I sit straight, worried, preparing myself for what he might be about to say.

“I can’t trust how I feel. And this anger inside me? I’m not sure I can keep it in.”

“Then don’t.”