care for a man neither of us felt like we could have. We held hands as we cried, soaking Mama’s soil with tears that didn’t belong to her. We talked about our plans for the future. We talked about our hopes for one another. We talked about broken hearts and broken minds, about cancer and God and the suffering of people.
We bonded in a way that wouldn’t have ever happened if it weren’t for Mama. It was the only and most precious gift she could have ever given me.
“Ready to go home?” Lance finally asked when the sun had started to set. I nodded in response before standing up. It was time to go home. My real home. The home I shared with my compassionate, caring, and loving brother. He started heading toward the parking lot, but I stayed for a second longer to stare at Mama’s grave.
“Thank you for Lance, Mama,” I whispered to the ground, knowing she was somewhere between heaven and hell. A sharp gust of wind blew through, jostling my hair and slapping at my cheeks. It was cold and demanding, breezy, and harsh. I swear the cemetery smelled of roses and cigarettes. The air around me was a selfish swirl that racked against my skin and beat me raw.
And somehow, I knew Mama had heard me.
36
Decker
Three months. I gave her three months. I willed my phone to ring, forced myself not to ask Lance about her every time we met up for drinks. I tried, I really tried to give her space even though I knew space was the last thing we needed. It took me a while to heal, but I learned that bullet wounds were easier to fix than a broken heart.
But we all needed time. Time to heal. Time to grieve. Time to figure our shit out. Time to cope. But time did nothing to dull the ache I felt for Blakely—and it was an agonizing sort of pain. The kind that tore you up and spit you back out. I knew I’d never be the same.
I moved out of Lance’s loft and found my new normalcy in our distant friendship. The bond was still there, but I gave him the space he craved to navigate this new stage in our relationship. I missed him a lot, and this big house, which once seemed like a good idea, was nothing compared to the comfort I had in our shared loft.
I knew Blakely transferred to a local school, and it killed me to know she gave up so much potential to get away from me. The one time we spoke about her, Lance assured me that she wanted to protect my career. I understood it, but I didn’t like it. I didn’t like much of anything these days.
It took a while to get better, though I was back in the classroom, albeit a bit grumpier than before. I knew Max had seen Blakely. He talked about her loudly to Taylor, giving updates on how she was doing since the death of her father. It killed me to be away from her as she grieved. She’d lost two parents in the span of a year. The only consolation I had was that Lance was guiding her through her mourning.
I was painting the kitchen when I heard a soft knock on my door. Assuming it was a delivery for those light fixtures I ordered, I casually placed the paintbrush in my hand on the paint pan and went to answer it. Everything felt so slow. Everything was muted without Blakely. I caught myself imagining what she would think of the house I’d worked so hard to fix up. I imagined the warmth she’d bring to these walls.
Swinging open the door, my heart fell to my feet when I saw Blakely standing there in a pair of overalls and holding a paintbrush. She looked gorgeous, with her pale, blonde hair pulled back and a shy smile on her face. “Hey,” she said.
“Hey,” I replied, when what I really wanted to say was I love you. Please come home to me. Please love me back.
“Lance mentioned you were painting today and said I should come over to help.” It was a thinly veiled implication saying all the things I was too scared to ask. She held Lance’s approval and acceptance in her words, and I couldn’t fight the grin that kissed my lips.
“I could definitely use the help,” I said in a low voice while stepping aside