“So, we’ve been thinking,” She pauses, “How would you feel about going back to seeing Ms. Burton.”

My head shoots up at the question. She wouldn’t turn around, too focuses on pretending to dice carrots. I hadn’t seen Ms. Burton in years. We kept in contact. She sent me Happy Birthday and Happy Holiday messages every year, but that’s about it.

“What?”

“Just for a little bit sweetie. Wouldn’t you like someone to talk to about how you’re feeling?” She asked finally turning around, “You don’t want to talk with us.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. I’ve just-“

“Been having trouble sleeping? Nightmares? Seeing things?” She says, “It’s back isn’t it?”

I avoid her soft gaze, staring intently at the island countertop. I hear her footsteps approach me, continuing around the island towards me. I swallow as her usually soft hands lands heavily on my shoulder.

“We know Mason. We want to help you.”

My throat feels dry, as her thumb caresses my chin. She gently strokes the skin there, gently reminding me not to bite my lips. I want to bask in the nostalgic feeling, but it suddenly feels wrong. It makes my stomach lurch. I shake her hand from my face as her touch burns into my skin.

“Can I think about it?”

She purses her lips and lets her hand fall to the counter close to mine. That’s the face she makes when she wants to say ‘no’, but also respect my choices. She gives a small smile and nods once.

“Of course, Mason.”

I sit on the couch during the repass. There was a lot of food on the table across from me. I watched the people talk and catch up. Some people were laughing while children too young to understand death ran around the house playing. The sight almost made me angry, like they were treating Tasha’s death as a family reunion. But I knew that different people cope with death in different ways. While I wanted to be home, buried under the covers and wait for Tasha to come knocking, they were bonding with and comforting each other.

Suddenly a sharp, freezing run down my back. My chest tightens and my heart thumps in my chest. The burning feel of eyes on me, makes me more than uncomfortable. I look around the room and see a pair of eyes on me. It was a man I recognized as Tasha’s uncle. I’d seen a few times when I stayed over. He gives me a single nod upwards in recognition, and I try to swallow the burning in my throat.

When the room begins to spin, I stand up shakily. I see motion through the window behind him, and fresh air suddenly seems like a good idea. I walk towards the door, ignoring all the eyes on me. Stepping out onto the porch, I freeze in my tracks at the sight ahead of me. Tate Miller.

“What?” He says, standing up straight, rubbing his hands on his jeans. I look down and see the flowers that he had placed on the porch. I looked around him and saw his bike propped up against the mailbox.

He raises his eyebrows up at me and scowls slightly. I realize that I had said his name out loud and he was expecting me to say something.

“Why are you here?”

“What do you think?”

It was a bouquet of hibiscus and baby’s breath. It wasn't a normal bouquet, they were Tasha’s favorite flowers. I remember that she told me that she loved those flowers because she ‘could have it in tea’ and ‘it just sounds cute’. Respectively. I scrunch my eyebrows together and look to Tate, he was looking at the flowers too. How’d he know that?

“What’d you do to her?”

I feel heat rise to my face, as I think of all the times Tate tormented us in the past. Maybe what happened back at school was a warning. They were

“What?” His face swirls from confusion to a nasty look, before he scoffs looking away. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know that you brought flowers-Tasha’s favorite flowers here without making your presence known. You weren’t at the funeral. Guilty conscience Tate?” I sneer, “What the fuck did you do to her?”

“Fuck you.” He shakes his head, turning around towards his bike.

My heart pounds and my throat aches. The world blinks around me, colors swirl together, and I’m dizzy on my feet. I look around for something to throw. Grabbing a small potted plant from the porch, I raise my arm to throw it, but a voice yells out.

“Wait!”