Page 137 of Anything But Lonely

She wouldn't look at me when she asked. Her eyes stayed fixed on the floor, her shoulders drawn inward like she was trying to make herself smaller. Her voice shook so badly I almost missed the question entirely.

It was such a simple thing.

Will you come with me?

But I could tell how much it cost her to ask.

How vulnerable she felt standing there.

I told her yes before she could take back the words.

She fell asleep curled against my side, her head resting on my chest, and I spent most of the night staring at the ceiling.

I kept thinking about all the ways I wanted to help her grieve. Help her heal. Help her carry some of the weight she's been dragging around alone for years.

Every thought led me back to the same conclusion.

I can't do those things for her.

I can't force her to process any of this.

I can't make her heal.

I can't save her from it.

The only thing I can do is be there when she's ready to take the next step herself.

And asking to visit her mom today feels like exactly that.

A step.

Maybe a small one. Maybe a painful one.

But a step forward all the same.

I didn't want to leave her this morning, but she insisted. Practically pushed me out the door and told me to go home, shower, and put on clean clothes.

A few hours later, Talia dropped Crew off, and you'd never know he'd spent yesterday in the emergency room.

He's already back to being himself, proudly showing off his cast to anyone willing to look at it. The kid has somehow turned a broken arm into the most exciting thing that's ever happened to him.

Kids are resilient like that.

And as I glance towards Emerson’s apartment and then at Crew through the rearview mirror, I find myself hoping she's more resilient than she realizes, too.

I unbuckle my seatbelt and turn around in my seat. “Remember when we talked about how some things get hurt and heal?” I ask Crew.

He nods immediately, holding up his cast. “Like my arm.”

“Exactly. But sometimes people get very, very old, or very, very sick, and their bodies stop working.”

His brow furrows, and he looks out his window. “Like a car?”

I huff out a laugh. “Kind of like a car.”

Crew considers this. “Can the doctor fix them? Like how the doctor fixed my arm?”

The question hits me like a gut-punch. “Not always, buddy.”