Page 51 of Anything But Lonely

A small, startled laugh catches in my throat, and I have to cough into my fist to clear it.

“No, none of that,” I answer.

“Bummer,” she says, but I can tell by the way she sits up a little taller that I got her attention.

“Well, losing my parents meant gaining guardianship over my sister, so I couldn’t really go those routes.”

“Double bummer.”

I snort. “That’s one way to put it.”

“How old were you and your sister?” Emerson asks, her interest piqued.

“I was eighteen, and Mia was eight.”

“Damn,” she says, echoing my response from before.

I nod. “My self-sabotage came in the form of packing lunches for a third grader and diving headfirst into carpool lanes and Girl Scout meetings.”

Emerson leans back, her hands going to her face, but I see the smile before she can hide it. “Don’t go domestic on me, rockstar. It’s too much.”

I bark out a laugh, my cheeks pinching at the sudden grin on my lips despite the heat blooming in my chest. I like when she calls me rockstar.

Even if she does it to tease me—pretending to flirt with me probably just so she can see me squirm.

“What can I say,” I reply, shrugging my shoulders, “practiced avoidance is easy when you throw yourself into caring about someone else.”

Emerson’s hands fall to her lap, her smile fading into something I can’t quite place. “Right,” she softly says, her usual edge nowhere to be found. There’s a slight shake of her head just before she adds, “Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that.” Her tone is a little too sarcastic.

“No,” I offer. “Of course you wouldn’t.”

It’s like we’re talking in code, forced to read between the lines.

We’re sitting here making light of our parents dying and how we chose—and are choosing—to cope, joking as if we both don’t know that Emerson knows exactly what I’m talking about.

But maybe that’s the thing about grief. It teaches you a language no one else wants to learn. A language made up of words you don’t say because saying them out loud makes them real.

I know what she’s doing because I did it too. Found something—or someone—to pour every leftover piece of myself into so I wouldn’t have to admit there was a hole there in the first place. It’s easier to be needed than it is to be hurting. Easier to focus on someone else’s broken pieces than acknowledge your own.

And the worst part is, sometimes it works. Sometimes you can convince yourself you’re healing when really you’re just distracted.

My lips part, ready to pop the bubble and tell her that I understand now why she took this job—why she insisted on me giving her a chance. That I know it was never just about the opportunity. It was about finding something to hold onto when everything else had fallen away.

“So,” she starts, and I close my mouth—more out of surprise than anything else. I thought maybe I pushed her as far as she’d go. “When does it get easier?”

“Which part?” I ask. “The acceptance? Or everything that comes after?”

Emerson’s expression fractures, the easy amusement draining from her face and leaving behind something softer. It’s like the mask of being okay slips away, leaving behind the raw, wounded parts of her she works so hard to keep hidden. “All of it?” she offers.

I lean forward onto the table between us, interlacing my fingers. “It takes a while,” I answer honestly.

“Do you ever stop missing them?" she asks so quietly I almost miss it.

The question hits somewhere deep in my chest.

"No," I admit, "but I don't think you're supposed to."

She frowns at that. "That's depressing.”