She studies me, eyes sharp, before sliding into the chair beside mine. “And your head? Is it still aching?”
Only when I think too much. Not what she wants to hear, though. “It’s a lot better. No more Percocet, thank God. That shit stops me up like nothing else.”
She laughs.
Because of course she does. What else can you do when your nephew tells you he’s constipated?
“TMI, Henry,” Mom says as she brings the chicken and sets it in the middle of the table. But I can tell from the sparkle in her eyes that she’s amused too. She takes her seat, and we start on lunch.
“So,” Aunt Mel says, spearing a green bean with her fork. “Two weeks back home. How are you really?”
I glance at Mom. She pretends not to listen, but her fork pauses midair. Dad’s at work, and Mom dismissed Anya. It’s just the three of us.
“Fine,” I say. “The doc says I can drive now, short distances. So I’ll be heading back to work next week.”
“I still think it’s too soon,” Mom presses.
I resist rolling my eyes. “I need to do something,” I tell her. “Sitting here alone with my thoughts is beginning to drive me a little bit crazy.”
Mom simply sighs.
I set down my fork and look at Aunt Melanie. “I get what you’re asking. I’m alive. Zach saved my ass. My head is much better, and my hair is growing back. That’s the medical version. The truth?” I drag in a breath. “I’m restless. I’m angry at myself. And I keep thinking about things I shouldn’t.”
Mom smiles and rises, taking her plate. “I’m going to eat in the dining room. You two go ahead and talk.”
I shake my head. “You know I always love to see you, Aunt Mel, so please don’t feel like you have to give me therapy just because Mom invited you over here to give me therapy.”
“She’s just concerned,” Aunt Mel says.
“I know.”
“Do you want to talk?” Aunt Mel leans in. “About the accident? About the shooting? About…Tabitha?”
Her name slams into me harder than the beam did. I look up sharply. “She didn’t come. I told Mom to call her and ask her to come, but she didn’t.”
“Yes, I know.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Great. So now it’s a family story.”
“No,” Aunt Mel says firmly. “It’s your story. And you’re allowed to own it.”
I eat a little more, though my appetite is gone. When the dishes are cleared, Aunt Mel steers me into the family room. I sink into Dad’s old leather armchair, the one that creaks under pressure but he refuses to get rid of. She sits across from me and folds her hands in her lap.
“Henry.” Her voice is steady. “Tell me what’s really going on in that head of yours.”
I rub the back of my neck. “Where do I start? I killed a man. I don’t regret it. You know all of this. He would’ve killed Angie and Jason. But it doesn’t matter. It’s still there, stamped on me. Then I almost died. I owe my life to my dog. And now…” I struggle to find the words. “Now I’m in love. And I don’t even know how it happened.”
Her gaze softens, but she doesn’t interrupt.
“It was two days,” I say. “Two days. We hardly knew each other. But I’ve never felt like this before. With anyone.” I rub at my forehead. “And now she’s gone.”
“Is she?”
I nod. “She chose her career. Her seminar. She said she couldn’t come.” My throat tightens. “And she’s right. I basically told her we had no future. Why would she stick around for a guy like me?”
Aunt Mel leans forward and rests her elbows on her knees. “You’re talking like love is measured in months or years. Sometimes it’s measured in moments. And sometimes those moments matter more than the calendar ever could.”
I stare at the hardwood floor. “It doesn’t change anything. She made her choice.”
