The stone stared back at me, impassive. Danny’s name carved into rock, permanent and unchangeable.
“I don’t know how to fix this,” I admitted. “I don’t know if it can be fixed. And the worst part is—” My voice broke completely. “The worst part is I don’t even remember it. You died, and I was so fucking destroyed that I let myself disappear into a bottle. I don’t fucking remember.”
Tears slid down my face. “You saved my life,” I repeated.
I don’t know how long I sat there. Long enough for the sun to come up. Long enough for my jeans to soak through completely. I heard footsteps on the gravel path behind me, but I didn’t turn. Didn’t care who saw me like this.
“Holden?”
I looked over my shoulder. Mrs. Curtis was standing a few feet away, a bundle of roses in her arms, her face tight with concern.
“Mrs. Curtis.” I scrambled to my feet, suddenly aware of how I must look—red-eyed, grass-stained, clearly having been crying. “I’m sorry. I’ll get out of your way.”
“No.” She stepped closer. “Stay. Please.”
I froze, uncertain.
She moved past me and knelt at Danny’s grave, placing the roses carefully against the headstone. For a moment, she just looked at her son’s name, her lips moving silently—a prayer, maybe, or just words she needed to say.
Then she stood and turned to face me. “How long have you been here?”
“I don’t know. An hour, maybe.”
“First time since the funeral?”
I nodded.
“Me too.” She gave a small, sad smile. “First time I’ve been able to come alone,” she corrected. “My sister’s been bringing me, but today—today I needed to talk to him by myself.”
“I should go. Give you privacy.”
“Holden.” Her voice was firm. “When was the last time you ate?”
The question caught me off guard. “I… I don’t know.”
She studied my face for a long moment, seeing things I probably didn’t want her to see. Then she reached out and took my arm. “Come. I’ll make you lunch.”
“Mrs. Curtis, you don’t have to—”
“Danny talked about you all the time. ‘Holden this, Holden that.’ You were his hero.” Her eyes glistened. “You’re family. And family doesn’t let family starve.”
I didn’t have the strength to argue. Didn’t have the strength for much of anything. I let her lead me to her car. Let her drive me to her small house a few miles from the cemetery. Let her sit me at her kitchen table and put coffee in front of me while she cooked bacon and eggs like it was the most normal thing in the world.
The kitchen was full of Danny. Photos on the fridge. A drawing he’d made as a kid, still pinned to a corkboard. A Venom Riders MC sticker on the cabinet.
“He loved that club,” Mrs. Curtis said, following my gaze. “Loved being part of something bigger than himself. Loved the brotherhood.”
“He was a good prospect. Would’ve been a good brother.”
“He was a good boy.” She set a plate in front of me. “Eat.”
I picked up the fork, more out of obedience than hunger. The bacon was crisp, the eggs done right. The kind of meal a mother makes without thinking about it.
“He’d want you to keep living,” she said quietly.
I looked up at her.
“Danny. He’d want you to keep living. Not just surviving—living. He didn’t step in front of that bullet so you could destroy yourself with guilt.”
