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Something
Something.
* * *
A week later, I take my brother to Group again. When we’re inside, Finn turns to me before he slips into his room.
“There is a grief group. You should check it out.”
“Now you sound like dad,” I tell him impatiently. “I don’t need to talk to them. I have you. No one understands like you.”
He nods, because no one understands like him. And then he disappears into the place where he draws his strength, around people who suffer just like him.
I try not to feel inadequate that they can help him in ways that I can’t.
Instead, I curl up on my bench beneath the abstract bird. I pop earbuds in my ears and close my eyes. I forgot my book today, so disappearing into music will have to do.
I concentrate on feeling the music rather than hearing it. I feel the vibration, I feel the words. I feel the beat. I feel the voices. I feel the emotion.
Someone else’s emotion other than my own is always a good thing.
The minutes pass, one after the other.
And then after twenty of them, he approaches.
Him.
The sexy stranger with eyes as black as night.
I feel him approach while my eyes are still closed. Don’t ask me how I know it’s him, because I just know. Don’t ask me what he’s doing here again, because I don’t care about that.
All I care about is the fact that he is here.
My eyes pop open to find him watching me, his eyes still as intense now as they were the other day. Still as dark, still as bottomless.
His gaze finds mine, connects with it, and holds.
We’re connected.
With each step, he doesn’t look away.
He’s dressed in the same sweatshirt as the other day. Irony is lost on you. He’s wearing dark jeans, black boots and his middle finger is still encircled by a silver band. He’s a rocker. Or an artist. Or a writer. He’s something hopelessly in style, timelessly romantic.
He’s twenty feet away.
Fifteen.
Ten.
Five.
The corner of his mouth tilts up as he passes, as he continues to watch me from the side. His shoulders sway, his hips are slim. Then he’s gone, walking away from me.
Five feet.
Ten.
Twenty.
