What got me the most was a picture of the couch at his house, of the spot I usually sit.
Callahan
I miss seeing you right here
I sent him a photo of the deep-dish pizza I ordered because I knew he didn't like them.
His reply came back in seconds:
Callahan
I show you nice things and you show me disgusting.
I laughed so hard my friend asked if I was okay.
I was not okay. I am not okay. I am so deep in this thing that three days without him made me physically restless. My skin itched. The bed felt wrong, too big, too empty, too cold on the side where he should have been. I kept reaching for warmth in the middle of the night and finding nothing but sheets.
Now I am back, and no plans of leaving for a while.
The Holt house smells like coffee and sawdust, the twin fuels Will runs on, scents that have seeped so deeply into the walls over the years that I think the house itself might run on them, too.
Callahan is at the kitchen counter with a mug in both hands, his gaze fixed on the workshop door.
The door is cracked open. Through it, I hear Will's voice. It’s conversational, the cadence of someone catching up with an old friend, pausing in the places where responses would go.
I've heard him do it before, but never close enough to make out words. It's always been the murmur of it, the rhythm, the sense of a man having a conversation with someone I can't see.
I come up behind Callahan and wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my cheek to his back between his shoulder blades. His free hand comes down to cover both of mine against his stomach.
"I'm worried about him," he says quietly.
"I know."
"He's been doing it more. Or I'm noticing it more, I don't know." He sets his coffee down on the counter, now both hands on mine.
“It used to be just at night, in the workshop. Now it's allthe time."
I press closer, and his heartbeat is steady against my ear. A little fast, maybe. Or maybe that's mine.
"I don't know how to bring it up without making him feel like I think he's lost it," he continues, troubled. "He'll be mortified. He'll shut down and I'll never hear him talk about her again, and that might be worse."
"We'll figure it out," I say into his back.
"I'll help. We can talk to him together, feel it out. See if there's anything to actually worry about or if this is just who he is."
He turns in my arms, leaning back against the counter, and pulls me into him. His chin rests on top of my head and I fit there, tucked under him, like this is where I was always meant to be.
"He talks about her to me all the time," I tell him. "When you're not here. Stories, memories, things she used to say. He doesn't talk to her when I'm around, but he talks about her constantly, and that feels different."
"Different how?"
"Talking about someone you've lost is how you keep them alive. It's healthy. It's good." I pull back enough to see his face. "He loves her and he wants to share her with people, and that's a man who's processing his grief, not losing his grip."
His hand comes up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and his face is tired. I suspect I'm as much to blame for that as his father is. We keep stealing hours from sleep because we can't stand to waste any of our time together on something as ordinary as rest.
"The talking to her part, I don't know yet," I admit. "But we'll figure it out. Together."
He doesn't answer right away. His thumb traces the shell of my ear, his thoughts somewhere far away.
