I reluctantly agreed to the sessions, mostly because I don’t need anyone watching out for me when we go out on calls.
But if evenonefire analogy comes out of the therapist’s mouth, Iwillflip the coffee table this time.
After my meeting with the chief, I went to the gym to burn off some anxiety that formed in my gut when my mind started spiraling. But, after a five-mile run on the treadmill and a killer back and biceps lift, the thoughts were nowhere to be found.
Since I let my lease run out for the apartment I shared with Bennett, I didn’t really have anywhere else to go, and I didn’t want to keep prolonging the inevitable of going home and seeing my mom and sister.
When I got there, I wished I had come home sooner.
Seeing my mom and Emerson was something I didn’t know I needed.
Just like with the fire station, my childhood home, my mother’s cooking, and messing with Emerson was like a breath of fresh air after feeling like I’ve been inhaling smoke the last year and a half.
My mom’s arms wrap around me before I can even shut the front door behind me. “I’m so happy you’re home,” she says as I feel her head rest against my chest.
“Hi, Ma.” I hold her close to me, resting my chin on the top of her head.
“We missed you,” she says, stepping out of my hold, putting her hands on her hips as she looks at me. I watch her brows raise as her eyes settle on my face. “You need to shave.”
I can help the laugh that escapes my lips, my hand instinctively going to my beard, feeling the grown out hair. I make a mental note to shave before I go to bed tonight, needing to get rid of any overgrown facial hair before I’m back at work—it’s been a while since I’ve needed to stay clean-shaven to properly seal a mask or respirator.
“Is Emmy here?” I close the front door and follow my mom further into the house. It hasn’t changed at all since the last timeI was home—saturated with memories in every nook and cranny—and it settles some tension in my shoulders.
Before my mom can say anything, my question is answered for me.
“I didn’t think it was possible for you to get even uglier,” I hear as we walk into the kitchen, finding my sister leaning against the counter, a smirk on her face.
“I could say the same to you,” I joke with a smile on my face, happy to see her.
Closing the space between us, I pull my sister in for a quick hug, feeling her half-assed attempt to hug me back before we fall into easy conversation among the three of us.
As my mom finishes cooking, refusing any help Emerson or I try to offer, I listen to her discuss all the neighborhood gossip as well as get all of the updates on my sister’s life—where she’s living, her job, and what she’s been up to.
The conversation is easy—easier than I thought it would be.
Neither my mom nor my sister even mention how long it’s been since I’ve been home, and they don’t attack me with questions like I thought they would.
At least not right away.
“Are you going to be staying here at Mom’s?” my sister asks as she finishes her second piece of french silk pie. Out of the two Hasting siblings, she has a big enough sweet tooth for the both of us, especially when it comes to chocolate—I can’t stand the stuff.
“Until I find a place, yeah,” I answer, taking a sip of my beer.
“I helped Luke and Annie pack up all the stuff in your apartment. They took Bennett’s stuff, and yours is all packed up here in the basement,” she says, matter-of-factly, as if we’re catching up on the latest news.
“Thanks,” I say, knowing that couldn’t have been easy for the three of them. Luke and Annie have known each other since theywere kids, meaning Annie also lost Bennett. Not only did she have to deal with her own loss, but she had to help Luke with his.
Same goes for Emerson. Although she was younger than me and Bennett, she knew him as my best friend her whole life.
The thought of the three of them having to pack up all of his stuff—and then my sister having to deal with all my shit too—makes me feel nauseous.
Emerson’s deep green eyes find mine as she sets her fork on her plate, leaning back in the dining room chair, crossing her tattooed arms over her chest—she’s gotten more since I last saw her, and her dark brown hair is much longer than it was a year and a half ago, with blunt bangs hanging just under her eyebrows, hiding the silver piercing she has on the left one.
“What?” I ask, feeling like I’m in trouble. Even though she’s eight years younger than me, she has a way of making me feel like she’s the older of the two of us.
“You broke her heart,” Emerson whispers, her voice tight with anger, and I know she’s talking about our mom.
I shake my head, guilt washing over me as I look over Emerson’s chair to see her washing dishes in the kitchen, refusing any help we try to offer her like always. “I couldn’t be here, Emmy,” I say, not able to apologize for leaving. I don’t know what would have happened—what I would’ve done—if I stayed. “I needed time to figure my shit out.”
