Page 157 of These Secret Years

Derek hands it back to me, and I immediately tap Sullivan’s contact. He answers on the first ring.

“Why aren’t you here?” I ask before he can even say hello.

“I’ll be there first thing tomorrow.”

“What does first thing mean? And what does ‘there’ mean. Are you coming to the house?”

“I’ll be at my house, but⁠—”

“You should—why aren’t you with me right now?” Okay, yeah, I heard how pathetic that sounded.

That’s when I notice he’s crying. It’s in the throatiness of his voice and the little sniffs. “Are you okay?” I ask.

“Knight…” he says, and chokes on a breath. “I’m gonna be there as soon as I can. I love you.”

“It doesn’t feel like it,” I say.

“I know. I’m sorry. But I love you. I’ll stay on the phone with you the rest of the day if you want.”

“I want you here.”

“I’m coming. I promise.”

“I can’t do this,” I tell him.

“You can. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

“That’s bullshit. You’re so much stronger than me. You should be here.”

“I’m here,” he says softly and doesn’t hang up. “I’m right here.”

There’s press outside the house when we arrive, not a ton, but enough that the car has to wait for them to move out of the way as we pull up the drive. I keep my head down, my phone pressed to my ear as we pile out of the car and head for the front door. It opens just before anyone can reach for the latch, and my uncle Jake is there, his face drawn with grief and concern, maybe some relief.

“I’ll call you back,” I say moodily to Sullivan before hanging up the phone and accepting my uncle’s embrace. When his arms wrap around me, and I hear his whispered, “I’m so sorry,” and he feels and sounds so much like my father, that’s when I start crying, and I pretty much don’t stop.

The day is the worst of my life. I’ll never, ever forget the way it feels to be punched in the chest—the gut—the face with such acute, bitter grief. And I thought I could take a hit.

Not like this.

The only person who has even half their shit together is my uncle’s wife, Sarah. She and some woman I’ve never seen before hold the drippy, sobbing mess of the rest of us together somehow by walking us through the day, gently telling us what’s next—funeral home tomorrow—dinner, now. Sleep, soon.

Deandre plays the functional version of me, processing facts in real time, making sure I’m where I’m supposed to be. Table. Shower. Bed. Alarm set for eight.

Sullivan isn’t crying when I call him back, but I can’t seem to stop.

I know more now about what happened. Found cold and dead by my mother who woke up with him like that next to her. He died in his fucking sleep. And that’s what they want me to do now. Sleep.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to do that. Their room is like—right there. My mom won’t even go in it. Do you think she’s gonna sell the house?”

I think I’m allowed to be all over the place. Sullivan says I am, and so I scatter, bits and pieces of things that happened throughout this horrible worst ever day, some continued bitching about him not being here, and why the fuck would he think I’d rather fly home with the twins? Also, does he think I’m gonna have to make a speech at the funeral? Because I’m not sure I can even go to that.

“You’d come with me, right? You wouldn’t make me do that alone.”

“Let’s talk about it when I get there, okay?”

“Sullivan, come the fuck on. How much of this do you think I can take?”

“This is bigger than you and me, and if you don’t hear anything else I say tonight, please hear that part. This—losing your father—your family grieving—it’s bigger than you and me.”