The screen door slams shut behind us and we walk to the end of the porch where the porch swing and chairs are. Dad’s already there, a pack of cigarettes, three beers, and four shots already prepped on the table.
Four.
Three for us, one for you.
He hands me the pack and I take it, pulling out a cigarette before handing it to Chevy who does the same. Dad takes out two, sticks one between his lips and sets the other across the top of your shot glass. The irony is, and no one misses it, you don’t smoke, and the whiskey isn’t even your type. This is just how things are in my family; when you’re not ready to accept the truth, tell a lie until you can.
Chevy hands me a shot glass after I’ve lit my cigarette, and we hold ours next to yours. We don’t say anything for a long minute, the silence heavy, yet somehow comforting. We used to do this all the time, the four of us, especially after something really huge happened.
Your photos getting featured in a major publication.
My certification as an animal rehab specialist.
Chevy becoming a father, both times.
Dad’s latest win in court.
Our engagement.
Your death.
It’s Dad that does the honors since I can’t put voice to my thoughts, what few there are. All I hear is your voice, all I see is your face and that glorious smile, the tears in your eyes when I embarrassed myself in front of everyone at the studio when I proposed. All I feel is your body in my arms that last time I held you before the medics forced me to let you go, forced you away from me.
My shot glass shakes in my hand, a trickle of whiskey running down the side. They don’t even acknowledge it.
“Cheers,” Dad says softly. There is no joy in this one, no laughter, no fun. We take the shot and grab for the beer, chasing the burn.
I take a step back and lean against the post, the cigarette burning in my hand as it hangs by my side. My eyes go to the woods, to the last place on the planet I’ll ever go again, the sun’s rays casting ribbons of light through the trees and over the grass and fallen leaves. I can hear some sounds coming from within them, children laughing.
I want to be angry at that, honestly. What the hell is there to be happy about? You’re gone!
My fist clenches around the cigarette and I feel it break in my grip, the cherry burning my finger but I don’t care. Chevy reaches over and takes it from me, putting it out in the ashtray.
“Harley,” he says, “Abby and I have been talking, and we think it might be a good idea if you come to stay with us for a little while.”
I don’t respond. I don’t even look at him.
“She says it might help you heal a bit to get out of that house, to be around family, and I agree with her. This shit is tough, we get it. You shouldn’t have to go through it alone, though, man.”
Of course Abigail would say something like that. She’s a psychologist and a grief counselor. Maybe it’s irrational to think this, but I’m sure she’s only offering so she can keep an eye on me, to use me as a case study for her next journal article or something. If not that, it’s to make sure I don’t go crazy with my drinking again. I like Abigail, but she never does anything, or suggests anything, without a reason.
“Harley—”
“No.” I’m not loud about it, I’m not being rude or nasty. It’s a simple answer, that’s all. It still takes both my brother and my father aback, including a few other people milling about. Not a huge surprise, of course. I haven’t really said anything all day. I couldn’t even speak at your memorial. My dad had to read out the letter I wrote because I couldn’t say a word.
It takes a second for activity to resume. I guess they were waiting for me to say more.
Too bad for them.
Dad breaks the brief silence. “Harley, at least think about it,” he says.
I just shake my head and pull from my beer bottle.
Chevy and Dad exchange a look. They had to have known that would be my response. They know me better than that. I know they’re trying to be nice, to be thoughtful and considerate. They want to make sure I’m going to be okay, that I won’t dive headfirst into a bottle of Jack and not come back up.
Chevy sighs, pulls on his cigarette and blows a long stream of smoke out into the yard. “Look,” he says after a minute, shifting his weight. “I won’t sit here and pretend I know what you’re going through.”
“Good.”
Again, another startled look from those nearby.
He clears his throat. “But being alone isn’t good for you. It never has been.”
He has a point there, much as I hate to admit it. I have a long history of self-destructive tendencies and a laundry list of stupid shit I did to satisfy them. If not for you, I would have died before I turned thirty.
“If you won’t consider their offer,” Dad put in, leaning back in his chair, his beer bottle and cigarette in one hand, “then at least consider some alternate form of care. Go on a trip, meet new people, start painting again.”
I stiffen.
“Just don’t allow yourself to stay lost in your grief.”
I finally turn to glare at him. I know he means well, I know he’s not trying to be cold. Somehow, though, his words hit in a way that really sets me off. I’m not an overly violent person and I don’t act out against people.
Not anymore, anyway.
The look in my eye must have said more than my words would have. Dad looks away and takes a long drag on his cigarette.
“I’m not telling you not to grieve, son,” he says gently. “I’m telling you not to let it completely consume you, that’s all.”
“We’re here if you need us,” Chevy said.
Fucking. Prick.
I have heard those words way too many times just in the last few hours alone. They’re meaningless, empty, said as a way to comfort the bereaved. Just another pointless cliche meant to be kind. All it does is piss me off.
“Sure,” I mutter, taking another long gulp of my beer, my gaze going back over the horizon, anywhere other than at them. All I can think in that moment is how I held you to me in this very spot a month ago, both of us excited about the wedding and going to look at houses afterwards. You were so incredibly beautiful, the way the setting sun fell over your face, setting your blue eyes aglow, your red hair like a blazing fire dancing in the breeze. I couldn’t stop staring at you, couldn’t stop touching your face, couldn’t stop from falling deeper in love with you. We’d been through so much up to that point, and things had gotten…difficult, but we managed to survive, as hard as it was. That moment, that one single moment, reminded me of everything I needed in my life, everything I had to look forward to, and everything else just faded away.
You were my future, my entire life, and I was not going to let anyone, or anything, take you from me.
SCREEEECH! THUD! CRACK! CRASH! CLATTER CLATTER CLATTER! “AHH! OH MY GOD, SOMEONE HELP!”
I grip my bottle tighter, that lance of pain shooting down my body again. I don’t want to be standing here with my brother. I don’t want to be eyed surreptitiously and whispered about by people I either don’t know or don’t even care about. I don’t want to be pitied and coddled. What I want, more than anything in the universe, is you.
“Harl—”
“I’m fine.” The lie is out before I can even stop it. The greatest lie ever told by anyone in an effort to shut people up, to make them leave you alone. They know I’m not fine, they know I’m completely fucked up right now. How can I not be? I just lost my goddamn soulmate, the man I was going to spend the rest of my life with, grow old with, watch sunsets on our back porch with, talk shit about Chevy with.
I swallow hard. “I’m going to be fine.”
Yeah, that sounds better.
At least they bought it.
Dad leans his arms on the table and Chevy’s lips turn down. I can’t get my voice to rise much higher than a low mutter, but at least the words shut them up.
“Fine,” Chevy finally says. “Just don’t drown yourself in whiskey.”
Joke’s on him. It wasn’t the whiskey I drowned in.
It was the rum.
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