“I told him to stay the fuck away from you. Damn it!” he spits out with so much hate, taking a step closer to my folded body on the ground, and I flinch at his anger.
I am breaking. The tears are far beyond my control. I try to hold myself together, but my body belongs to someone else. My hands tremble, and my breath comes in shallow gulps. All I cando is stare at the floor, blinking back the truth I don’t want to live in. I want to go home, but I have nowhere else to go. Nowhere else to hide. Joe was my cave, my refuge, and I still wasn't strong enough to find my place where I was meant to feel the safest. I want to call him again and pretend none of this is real, but my chest refuses to unclench. Until quietly, something shifts.
A shadow falls over me. Liam crouches down in a slow and cautious breath, as if he doesn’t trust himself. His jaw is still tense, his whole body still hard as a wall, but then…
He offers me his hand.
It hangs there between us, calloused and bruised from the bag, open, like part of him hates that he’s showing any type of kindness. But it’s there, staring back at me. For a second, our eyes meet, and maybe that’s when he sees it that I cared, so much. How real it was, because something in his expression softens. A flicker of something human. It vanishes almost as fast as it came, and his hand pulls back, but I reach for it as quickly as I can, because right now, I don’t know how to stand without someone else’s strength. Even if that someone thinks I might’ve taken their brother. Even if I’m not sure, I didn’t.
That’s when it hits me. I need my mom. For once, I desperately need her.
The front door slams open so hard it bounces off the wall, I don’t even remember running here. Inside the shadowed tile entryway, my body moves before my mind catches up. I stagger toward the living room. Everything too bright, windows wideopen to the evening sun, no TV noise, no wineglass. Too much life, yet none at all.
Mom’s not home, but my brain keeps screaming her name in my head, looping it louder with every step. My hands wring together, nails raking over the skin as if I’m trying to draw blood and wake myself up from this nightmare that I have yet to believe is real. I’m going to wake up, I’m going to run into Joe’s arms and feel his heat on his chest, hear his heartbeat against me.
Please don’t take him away from me, please. I would beg any god for this moment not to be real.
To whom does one earnestly plea and call out on bended knees, begging for another minute, day, or second with someone they love? Do I break a bone or hand off an organ for a chance at rearranging a poorly written path? A devastating, poorly written one…Joe, don’t leave me, please.
There’s the clatter of a car in the driveway and my muscles go rigid. Mom’s here. She walks through the yard carrying a tote, already on her phone, face set in that exhausted, stoic line that says, don’t even try me, but I run to her. I don’t even remember crossing the grass. One second, she’s still a silhouette, and the next I’m in her arms. I feel instant relief. I’ve hated her so much, but beneath lies a love I’ll always chase, and I’m safe for a little while.
Please wake me, Mom, save me.
My fingers knot in her linen shirt, and my body shakes like I’ve come in from the cold. Her perfume is faint beneath the smell of paper and citrus; it’s hers. And I bury myself in it desperately. Her eyes meet mine, and something slow and raw creeps across her features.
She drops everything.
The bag. The phone. The noise they make hitting the tile feels too loud, like a cup cracking in a quiet church.
And I break.I break in the arms of my mother, but also, someone who has felt the depth of pain I am feeling now.
Her hands slide up into my hair. I feel her breath hitch, feel her stiffen in the way she does when she knows something’s worse than she can fix. Her voice barely makes it out.
“What happened?”
And it’s that voice, that low, grief-stung whisper I’ve only ever heard once before, the night they told us my brother wasn’t coming home — that makes it real.
That’s the moment it all feels real, but I don’t want it to feel real.
Joe is gone. My love is gone.
I’m supposed to say something, but the words tangle in my throat. I can’t say it out loud. My vision tunnels. I see her mouth moving, but no sound gets through my ringing ears.
She grabs me by the shoulders so hard it stings, and for a second, I think she’s angry, maybe she knows what I did, or didn’t do, or said, or should have said to keep Joe from getting on his bike. But her grip goes limp just as fast, and she pulls me into her arms once more. I’d do anything to be five again and cry over a toy and not another pillar in my life dying or deserting me.
“Make it stop.” I heave, my chest tight as I fight for air.
My body goes rigid, every muscle trying to fight off the collapse, but it happens anyway and I fold, I buckle, I sob into her shoulder; the sobs screeching into my own ears and I’m shocked at how loud my pain sounds. It hurts, my God, it hurts.
“It hurts. Mom… it hurts.” I tremble.
She says my name over and over, sometimes as a question, sometimes as a command, like maybe if she keeps calling me back, I won’t disappear.
When the worst of it ebbs, I try to stand, to speak and to see if words will come out. My face is hot, eyes swollen, mouth tasting of salt and shame. I look at her and see my pain reflected.
“He’s gone,” I whisper. It takes all my effort to keep my voice from shattering.“Joe’s gone.”
The words float there, terrible words. She gasps, and I know she understands that this is not a breakup…this is death at our door.
