Page 20 of Stroke Rate

“It’s like sometimes the memories are so close to the surface it feels like if I turned around he would be right there. But then I turn around and he’s not there, and it's like someone kicked me in the gut. It all seems like such a waste. He was amazing and now he's just gone.” He sniffled and swiped at the tears streaming down his cheeks. “I don’t deserve it. And I just feel like none of this is fair. I should not be the one moving on. I shouldn’t have been the one to survive.” River’s eyes burned and the back of his throat felt tight. “I have felt nothing in years, Oceana. Years. I haven't wanted anyone or anything, but this guy. Chris. There was just something; he was so easy. I felt so…Well, I just felt. And that’s not fair. I don’t deserve to feel and I don’t deserve happiness. If I only would have.”

Oceana raised an open hand. “I'm going to stop you right there, because that is not true, and that's the PTSD winning, and we are not letting that win anymore. The accident was not your fault, and you couldn’t have done anything to change the outcome. You couldn’t have saved them, and you must stop blaming yourself. If you continue, it will be death by a thousand little cuts. Eventually, you will bleed out. And that is no way to honor Coop’s life.” She shook her head and tapped her pen. “River, you deserve happiness. I’ll say it again, because I can see it in your eyes, you don’t believe me, but you deserve happiness. I know meeting Chris was unconventional, and not a great situation, but you deserve it. You deserve some light.”

River nodded, trying to soak in Oceana’s words. Trying to convince himself that he deserved happiness, that he deserved to move on. That Coop would want him to move on. That this wasn’t a betrayal of what they had. There were days when River felt a glimmer of hope and a sense of closure, but on other days, a text from Chris would reignite his guilt and inner conflict. The urge to text back or call Chris was almost too much to bear, but he was frozen. That lingering, intense heartache River carried from the day he left Chris would send him into a spiral of guilt.

“River, Coop’s life was not a waste, and it's okay to move on. You will never forget Coop; you will always keep him alive. He's in your heart and your soul, guiding you.” Oceana came over, placing a hand over River’s heart. “He is alive right here.”

River nodded, covering Oceana’s hand with his own. “I just don’t know. Some days I can convince myself of that, but some days I can't. And it's like I’m in a tailspin, unable to pull myself up,” he said.

“That’s normal, River, and you know that from our talks. It’s part of grieving. It’s part of depression and PTSD, but you have the tools to combat those feelings. I just want you to keep on fighting. Keep on looking for the light.” She smiled at him then, her kind eyes trying to convey something River wasn’t ready to accept. “Can you do that for me, River? Keep looking for the light?”

“I'm really going to try,” he said. And he would. He promised himself right there that he would keep fighting for the light.

Even on hard days.

Even after long nights with little sleep.

Even on days when memories of Coop consumed him, River vowed to fight to find the light.

I deserve to live in the light.

Chapter eighteen

River

Therapy and rehashing his guilt over the feelings of betraying Coop brought back the nightmares he had experienced after the accident. River had somehow avoided being trapped in his own subconscious for close to a year, but this past month they were back with a vengeance. He was once again enclosed in a nightmare his brain had created, visions of the accident playing in vivid detail behind his sleeping eyelids. They had started again the night after leaving Chris.

He had thought they were over; he had worked hard for them not to consume his nights. Learning to sleep alone after Cooper died had been an impossible task. After sleeping next to someone for a decade, his body had revolted, refusing to give into the bone-deep exhaustion that consumed his every waking moment. River had spent too many nights staring at the ceiling, the dark of night fading into the warm colors of morning. Dark, endless nights spent pacing his house, pinching his lip to the point of drawing blood, going out for walks in a daze, getting so disoriented he would have trouble remembering where he was and what he was doing. For the past month, things had been much the same and contained so many sleepless nights. He wasn’t even sure what normal sleep felt like anymore. After enduring a month of torturous sleep, how would a few nights free from nightmares and internal screaming urging me to wake up even feel? God, he was so fucked up.

His nightmares were awful, but they were also the only place River still got to feel Coop; his hands on his face and his gentle voice in his ear. Every nightmare ended the same way: Coop appearing, his face soft around the edges, a little blurry. No bruises or cuts, perfect just the way River had wanted to remember him. Coop would take River’s face in his hands and tell him to focus on his face.

“Find my face.” Coop's sweet voice would whisper. “If you can find my face, you’ll wake up. Everything will be fine, my sweet. Just find my face.” He was tired, his strength and emotions utterly drained by the same relentless dream that had haunted him for years, making him question if he'd had any actual restful sleep since his final night with Coop.

Some days he wished for them to end forever; other days the thought of them ending was so crushing he couldn’t get out of bed. The possibility of never hearing or feeling Coop again was so paralyzing he had willed himself back to sleep, for just one more moment with him. Anything was better than waking in the bed that no longer smelled like Coop, the pillow that no longer held his head imprint, his side of the bed cold and empty.

Between his sleepless nights, almost constant speech therapy, and sessions with Oceana, there had been an endless stream of texts from Chris with apology after apology and the occasional, I'm here when you're ready to talk. River, like the complete asshole he was, left them all on read. He ghosted the poor boy, letting him think River didn't care, hoping that the texts would end and that Chris would stop and move on. The texts hadn't stopped, and apparently Chris hadn't moved on. Every morning River sat on his sad, lonely couch in his sad, old pajamas and read every single text again—not sure if he was reading them to torture himself or to help him feel less alone. At least he was still thinking of me. Fuck, he was pathetic.

On top of that mess, Brooke wasn’t leaving him alone. That girl was like a dog with a bone. The frequency of her texts, which were almost as often as Chris', shouldn't have surprised River. Brooke had always been his mother hen, checking in and making sure he was okay. Still too nervous and embarrassed by his latest setback, he had yet to tell her about his voice.

Her last text message had been a clear ultimatum. He had three days to respond, or she'd be at his doorstep. He, however, knew that she would be there in less time. River would not have been surprised if she appeared within a day. The girl was not good with boundaries. Thinking of her impending arrival, River took a whiff of his pits, quickly realizing it had been too many days since the last time he bathed, so many days in fact that he couldn’t remember the last time. Am I depressed? According to Oceana…most likely. “Fuck,” River groaned, pushing the palms of his hands so hard into his eyes he saw stars, wishing he had made different decisions. He had so many regrets and wished he had handled things differently.

Wished he hadn’t walked out on Chris.

Wished Chris was there with him right then, soothing him with his soft voice and tender laugh.

Instead, River sat isolated in the house that no longer felt like home, on the couch that held so many memories River found it almost painful to keep around. The large, overstuffed couch that River and Coop had bought to snuggle on—still cozy and welcoming—now held a lingering sadness that added to the depressing fog that lingered in the lifeless bungalow. He rubbed at the old, threadbare pajama pants, the ones Coop had always wanted to throw in the trash, and Coop’s old college hoodie, and River let his mind wander back to all the time spent in this very spot. The spot where Coop had sat and welcomed Brooke to their house for the first time. The spot where River would perch with Coop between his legs, brushing his hair. The same spot River had proposed in, where the two of them had sat for hours planning their future together.

With tears welling in his eyes and his touch-starved skin aching, River melted into the hoodie that had seen better days, lying loose over his shoulders, reminding him of Coop’s arms. The hoodie had holes in the sleeves, where Coop used to stick his thumbs through, the neck stretched and falling apart from Coop yanking at it, and the strings old and tattered lying lifeless across River’s chest. Concentrating, River swore he could detect the faintest hint of Coop’s spicy deodorant, making him cry even harder. More and more, the small parts of Coop were vanishing into space and time, but Coop's faint lingering scent transported River back to the memory of holding him wearing this same sweatshirt. Young and eager, their whole lives ahead of them, making out like teens on their first night in this house. River buried his face into the hoodie, only his damp eyes visible above the neckline. He heaved a heavy breath, allowing himself to imagine Coop holding him one last time.

A loud knock and an all too familiar voice pulled River from his dreary state of misery.

“Yoo-hoo, Riv, open up. I’ll use my key if I have to,” Brooke said, making River groan as he wiped the dampness from his face. Just the sound of her voice made more tears fall. “Open up, you turd!” she yelled, impatient as always. “I know you are in there, probably on the couch, probably overthinking, and 100% in those gross-ass pajama bottoms.”

Running his hands over the sad excuse for pants, River couldn't help but huff, “God, I am a fucking mess.”

“Okay, I’m using my key,” she said, right before the door flew open. Brooke loomed in the doorway like a cartoon movie villain, arms stretched wide. All she needs is a maniacal cackle to complete the scene. The bright sun behind her illuminated her dark silhouette, making her look even more ominous as she entered the house.

River blinked against the gleaming halo of the Colorado sun, making his eyes water more than they already had. He sat still as a statue and watched as Brooke took tentative steps into the house, eyeing him while opening her arms and making grabby hands. Her usual cheerful smile was replaced with sad, knowing eyes. River took her open arms as the invitation that they were, an invitation for him to seek comfort from his sweet girl. Fuck, he was so lucky to have her. Choking back a sob, he stumbled and melted into her embrace. Brooke held him tight, rocking back and forth, cradling River’s head on her shoulder as her other hand rubbed soothing circles on his back while he wept.