This man.
This impossible man, offering to sit in a grief group just so I’m not alone. I don’t know what to say. I reach for him, tugging him close, pressing a kiss to his lips that says everything I can’t yet voice. Gratitude, affection, the overwhelming realization that somehow, he’s become essential.
“Thank you,” I murmur against his mouth.
He smiles, hands settling on either side of my face for just a moment before he pulls back.
“I meant it when I said you’re not alone in this,” he says, softer this time, kissing me once more at the corner of my mouth.
When he leaves, most shadows follow. But a few remain, clinging to the edges of the space he left. For the first time, they don’t feel like remnants of Hayden. They feel like company.
• • •
The donuts arestaring at me.
Glazed. Sprinkled. Boston cream. Each one a frosted reminder that I’m stalling. It’s just fried dough, but somehow it feels like a moral crossroads.
Because what I’m really doing is buying time, trying to pretendI’m not about to walk into a room full of strangers and talk about the one thing I’ve avoided for twenty-odd years. The latest draft of the garden proposal is spread across my kitchen table, notes and sketches half buried under a slew of new forms. I told myself I’d finish it before this meeting, but I haven’t been able to focus…not when my brain’s been circling this moment over and over.
It’s been days since Hayden held me through the worst of it. Since I cracked wide open in front of him in a way I never have before. Since then, I’ve gone back to pretending. I watered the plants on autopilot, made bouquets that all looked the same, laughed when Elijah or Dominic popped by. I convinced everyone but myself that things were back to normal.
They aren’t. Not really.
But Hayden’s been incredible. He hasn’t tiptoed around me or treated me like glass. He’s just been there. Showing up with my absurdly complicated coffee order. Texting memes so unfunny they’re hilarious because I knew he dug through the depths of the internet just to try to make me laugh. Wrapping an arm around me when I start to drift too far inside my own head. And god help me, I adore him for it.
But this? This I need to do alone.
Hayden offered to come with me. Of course he did. And for a moment, I almost said yes. But he just smiled when I told him no, pressed a kiss to my forehead, murmured,I’m so proud of you, and let me go.
So, now here I am. Alone. Agonizing over donuts like my entire emotional stability hinges on glaze versus sprinkles.
I sigh, panic-grab a powdered one for zero reason whatsoever, and turn toward the room where Irene’s class is about to begin.
The sign on the door asks for phones off and first names only. The chairs form a circle, deliberate and inviting. Not a lecture, buta conversation. Like we’re equals, just people trying to make sense of loss instead of strangers who have no idea how to live without someone we loved.
Irene sits at the front, clipboard resting on her knee. Her expression is calm and composed, the kind of quiet confidence that makes you feel safe. She doesn’t coddle or use that false “there-there” voice people cling to around hard things. She just looks at each of us, acknowledging us as individuals, and I get the feeling she’s memorized every name in this room.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” she says, voice steady but warm. “For those of you who are new here”—her eyes flick briefly to me—“this space is whatever you need it to be. Share as much or as little as you want. There’s no right or wrong way to feel.” She leans forward, hands folded in her lap. “No apologies for tears, tremors, or timelines. Whatever stage you’re in, however long you’ve been carrying it…it’s yours. You don’t have to justify it.”
I swallow hard, suddenly aware of the powdered donut in my hand. It reminds me of the garden somehow. The way everything here is allowed to exist as is. No pruning, no forcing things to bloom before they’re ready.
Around the circle, the discussion begins.
An older woman named Miriam speaks first, talking about how she still sets out two cups of coffee every morning, one for herself and one for her late partner. “I know she’s gone,” she says, voice thick, “but after fifty-two years of living with someone, I don’t know how tonotmake her coffee.”
Next, a man, late forties, dressed in work boots and a well-worn flannel, nods. “I lost my best friend earlier this year,” he says. “And I still reach for my phone whenever I hear a joke I know he’d love.”
A teenage girl, twisting a ring on a chain around her neck till it squeaks against the metal, speaks softly about her dad. About howpeople keep telling her she’ll understand thingsbetterwhen she’s older. Like grief is something she just has to grow into.
A woman probably in her sixties says, “I lost my dog two months ago. I know some people think that doesn’t count, but he was the only family I had.”
Irene nods. “Of course it counts.”
The conversation moves fluidly, stories overlapping, losses different but the same.
And then Irene looks at me.
“Levi,” she says gently. “Is there anything you’d like to share?”
