I shift, toying with my napkin. “Oh, uh.” My voice comes out small. “It’s probably not a big deal…since it’s been a while.”
Irene shifts her head. “ ‘Not a big deal.’ ”
I force a smile. “I mean, it’s beenyears. Since I was a kid. So, it’s not like I’m…I don’t know. It’s fine.”
Irene doesn’t look away, but it’s Miriam who speaks from the seat next to me. “You’re here, young man.” Her voice is firm, holding no room for argument, like a grandmother calling your bluff before you’ve even opened your mouth. “Which probably means it’s notfineat all.”
I feel exposed and my throat tightens when I try to swallow. “It was my brother,” I say finally, voice barely loud enough to fill the space between us. “Brent. He was eight, I was seven. Car accident. It…it broke everything.”
There’s a pause, the kind that feels heavier than silence.
Irene nods, her expression unreadable. “And how did you process that loss, back then?”
I blink, thrown by the question. “I…I didn’t.”
She doesn’t look surprised.
“Why do you think that is?”
I lick my lips, suddenly wishing I’d grabbed a bottle of waterinstead of a donut. “Because I was the one left,” I admit, not a decibel above a whisper. “Because my parents lost their son, and I thought…if I was happy, if I was good enough, maybe it wouldn’t hurt them as much.”
Irene’s gaze softens, but she doesn’t let up. “Who taught you your grief wasn’t allowed? Someone else, or you?”
I exhale sharply, glancing at the ceiling, trying to will away the sting in my eyes. “Oh, um. No one, I suppose,” I admit.
Miriam presses a tissue into my palm, her hand lingering, as if to remind me that grief isn’t faced alone.
Irene clasps her hands together. “Levi,” she says, even-keeled. “What do you think would have happened if youweren’thappy? If youweren’tthe good son?”
I open my mouth. Close it.
The answer is obvious.
“I honestly have no idea,” I whisper. “I guess I was too scared of what might happen if I stopped pretending.”
A beat passes before Irene opens the floor again, and the discussion moves on.
By the time class ends, I feel wrecked, jaw unclenched, ribs sore where breath finally found room. Like Irene took a hammer to the wall I’d built two decades ago and left me in the rubble. Every emotion pressing hard against my sternum, finally demanding peace.
Lighterisn’t the right word butlooseris.
People linger, chatting, offering words of support. A man with kind eyes asks what to plant this time of year, as if gardening might heal us both. I answer with a recommendation for soil and my favorite hardy plants.
Normal things.
Maybe that’s what I’ve been trying to do all along…help things grow where something was taken.
And then I step outside.
And stop short.
Hayden is here. Sitting on the steps of the community center, book in hand, one ankle resting over his knee. He raises his head when he hears the door, and when his eyes land on me, he doesn’t say anything. Just…looks at me.
Really looks at me.
“You came?” I ask, my voice too quiet, caught between surprise and relief. “You didn’t have to do that.”
He dog-ears the page. A spare coffee sits beside him, gone cold. He must’ve been here awhile. “Of course I did,” he says, like there was ever a coin flip.
