Page 165 of These Secret Years

“I’m drunk,” I say through the door.

“Great.”

“I’m sorry,” I add.

“It’s fine. I get it. It was just all I had on short notice.”

Leaning my head against the door, I say, “I miss you.”

I mean a lot of things by that, but mainly what I’m saying is that I acutely miss my father. I’m desperate not to have to weather this loss, but I have no choice. What I’m also saying is that I’ve been dealing with the ongoing loss of Sullivan for over a year now.

Yes, he’s still here, still alive with warm flesh and a beating heart, but I lost something when we went from lovers to friends, and I lost something even more profound when he was assaulted after Christmas. While my father’s death was sudden, this death of what Sullivan and I could have been—or almost were—is the death of a thousand tiny cuts.

He opens the door in jeans and a nice button down with the sleeves rolled up to showcase his long, lean forearms and some of his nicer tattoos. “What are you wearing?” he asks after taking in my much more casual appearance.

“I don’t want to go down there.”

He sighs.

“Did you hear what I said?”

He shakes his head.

I say it again. “I miss you.”

His cheeks hollow like he’s biting them. “You’re drunk,” he finally says. “And I don’t wanna do this right now.”

“Do what?”

“Talk about us.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a fucking funeral, and I’m exhausted. If you don’t want to go down there, fine, we can stay here, but I think sleep is the thing we need to do. Not talk.”

I’m sure he’s right, but it’s not what I want to hear. We’ve spent too much time since he’s been here not talking. Still, I trudge over to the bed and crash onto my side, sick of holding myself up. He settles behind me, making me the little spoon.

I close my eyes, trying and failing to make myself believe I haven’t lost everything. But it doesn’t work. When I wake up, Sullivan isn’t even there.

It’s late when I make my way downstairs with a headache and a dry mouth.

Sullivan is at the kitchen table with my roommates, and they’re playing a quiet game of cards. Not UNO. Phase Ten, I think.

They all glance at me, and I don’t know what they see, but no one says anything. My aunts are shoveling leftovers into Tupperware containers, and there’s a huge pile of dishes in the sink. The trash is overflowing with bottles and cups and plastic plates. I grab that, walking it out back to the trash bin, then I come back inside, replace the bag, and get a bottle of water from the fridge.

Still, no one speaks. There’s music on. The eighties classic rock that would have had my dad jamming, and it chokes me up hearing the familiar guitar riffs.

“Knight. Good. There you are. Come out back with me.”

I frown at my uncle Luke, surprised for some reason to discover I’m slightly taller than he is. When the fuck did that happen? The man is a giant.

I glance back over at the table, at Sullivan, who gives me a nod, at least acknowledging me. With that piece of my heart settled into place, I follow my uncle outside to a couple of lounge chairs by the pool. Since there are no kids around, I have to assume it’s past their bedtime.

I crack open the seal of the water bottle and drink half of it down in one long, continuous swallow.

“I talked with Sullivan for a while today,” he says, and I nearly choke.

“Excuse me? Who said you could do that?”