“But then when he called and I sent it to voicemail. “ He stops. “Meant to call him back. Got into this thing about the lines, forgot, figured I’d call in the morning.”
A tear slides down his cheek. He swipes it away fast, like he’s angry that it’s there.
“Got the call at 7:43 in the morning. Detroit time. Hospital saying they had Matthew Varga and I was his emergency contact.” His voice cracks and he stops, jaw working.
I wait.
“He was already gone. Twenty-one years old and I had to identify him and sign papers.” He shakes his head once. “Pills. Empty bottles. A note that said ‘I’m sorry. It’s not your fault, Roman.’”
His hands are shaking now. “I kept thinking about that call. What he might have said. If hearing my voice would have been enough to?—”
“You can’t know that.”
“I should have known something was wrong. I was his brother.” The words cut off and he takes a sharp breath. “Every sign was there and I missed them because I was focused on hockey.”
“Oh, Roman.”
“Every year December 29th comes and I think this will be the year I don’t fall apart. But I always end up drunk.” His jaw locks. “And now I’ve hurt you.”
He looks at me. His eyes are red but dry, his expression carefully blank except for something devastated underneath.
I reach for his hand. He lets me take it but doesn’t hold on.
“My mom used to tell me grief isn’t something you get over,” I say. “It’s something you learn to carry.”
He doesn’t respond.
“I’ve been carrying guilt for the past few months. That I didn’t notice the cancer sooner. That I didn’t push harder for treatment. That I was at work when she asked for me.” My throat tightens. “I hate myself for it even though I know it wouldn’t have changed anything.”
“It’s not the same?—”
“It’s exactly the same. You’re torturing yourself with what-ifs about Matty. I’m torturing myself with what-ifs about Mom. But we can’t save people from themselves.”
“I don’t know how to stop feeling like I failed him.”
“I don’t know how to stop feeling like I failed her. But maybe that’s why you need to talk to someone who understands this.”
He looks at our hands. “You should go. Give yourself space from me.”
“I’m not leaving. We’re both grieving. You lost Matty five years ago but you’re still losing him every December 29th. I justlost my mom and I’m going to keep losing her.” I squeeze his hand. “Maybe we’re both a mess but we’re a mess together.”
Something in his face shifts and he squeezes my hand this time, pulling me to him.
“I don’t deserve you.”
“Probably not. But you’re stuck with me.” I wrap my arms around his waist. “Now brush your teeth because you smell like a distillery.”
He brushes his teeth,follows me to the kitchen, sits when I point at the table.
“Thank you,” he says after a moment. “For staying.”
“I love you. Even when everything’s a mess.”
“I love you, too, Moxie.”
I order breakfast and we end up on the couch waiting for the food to arrive. Roman sits stiff until I pull his arm around my shoulders. Then some of the tension drains.
“I keep thinking about the voicemail,” he says. “What he said. If there was something I missed.”
