Page 93

“No,” I whisper, and it feels shameful to admit, especially because at this point I should really move on. It’s almost been a year at this point. November has always been our month, but it’s Thanksgiving Day, and nothing. I thought maybe, just maybe, he’d tell me what was going on now that we’re presumably both here. But so far, it’s been the loudest silence yet.

Or maybe he isn’t here, and that has something to do with what happened at Christmas. Fuck, I hate the not knowing.

Especially because I still think about him constantly. I think about his apartment, the way he looked at me in the morning light, the way his voice dropped when he said my name. I think about the way it felt like we were really moving toward something between Thanksgiving and Christmas, how I wanted him to visit so we could see if him moving was even a possibility. I think about how much he didn’t want me to get out of his car last December. How he held my hand across the console and squeezed tighter when we pulled up to my parents’ house. I think about the texts that used to come regularly, and then the way they slowed down, became shorter, until they stopped completely.

“I’m sorry, honey. I know you’re hurting,” Mom coos as she opens her arms to me. “Come here.”

I step into her and wrap myself around her smaller frame as she rubs my back. She smells like comfort food, and for a second I stand there, eyes shut, breathing her in, letting her help me hold some of the weight I’ve been carrying alone for months.

“You’re going to get through this,” she assures me with such certainty that I wish I could borrow some of it for myself.

“I hope.”

When we separate, she squeezes my hand once before turning back to the stove, and I help her prepare the rest of dinner. Except I still feel hollow.

“What’s going on with you, bro?” Dan asks, coming into the kitchen to get a drink from the fridge. “You’ve been sad since you got here.”

I glance at Mom, who gives me the smallest nod, like she’s leaving the choice of how much to say entirely up to me.

“Just going through a rough patch,” I admit, which feels like the understatement of the century.

“Rough patch like work stuff, or rough patch like something’s actually wrong?”

Dan’s never been subtle and it’s kind of nice to have someone who doesn’t tiptoe around things, even when it can be embarrassing at times, like the hickey Marcus gave me a few years ago.

“The second one,” I murmur.

He twists the cap off his beverage and looks at me. “You want to talk about it? Will that help you be less of a sad sack?”

I laugh a little at that. “A sad sack?”

He just shrugs. “What? I’ve got kids. We filter everything.”

“I’ll be fine, just missing someone, that’s all.”

“Well, let me know if you want to talk more about it,” he offers.

“I will, thanks.”

“Dan, will you go get the kids? Dinner’s almost ready,” Mom requests.

“Kids! Dinner!” he yells, and Mom sighs.

“Well, I could’ve done that, Daniel.”

But he just shrugs and smirks at her before walking into the living room while the kids come barreling into the kitchen.

When we eat, I watch Melissa help Tommy cut his turkey into smaller pieces as we all talk and catch up. It’s warm and familiar and exactly what Thanksgiving should be, but I feel like I’m watching it all from behind glass. Present but not really here. The memories of him are claustrophobic. Ever since being back here, it’s like trying to breathe in a room that’s slowly running out of air. I truly didn’t know it was possible to miss someone so much.

After dinner, Claire tugs on my sleeve. “Uncle Evan, will you play with us?”

“Of course, kiddo,” I say, and I follow her to the living room where Tommy is already setting up his collection of plastic dinosaurs on the coffee table. He’s still into them and I smile at the familiarity. He still has the toy I got him at the museum, too. I sit on the floor cross-legged, and Claire immediately starts directing a game that has nothing to do with the dinos.

I try to engage. I try to have fun with them because I love them and they’re a year older, and I miss so much of their lives, but all I can think about is Marcus. I’m convinced it’s a sickness at this point.

Later that night, I’m lying in my childhood bed and I let the sadness take over while wearing his hoodie. I packed it without thinking, the same way I’ve worn it most nights this year. I pull the collar up over my nose and breathe in, the way I always do, even though it obviously doesn’t smell like him anymore.

It just smells like my laundry detergent now. Like me.