a single box of things when he was packing up their house after the funeral. Photos, his mother’s Tanakh, which was full of little bits of scrap paper covered in her miniscule writing, a cookie jar with the crack in the top, his dad’s beat up comb with only half the teeth left, and the honey jar.
The rest he signed away to their synagogue, letting a team of people from there sort it out and sell or donate. It made him feel a little strange to think about how someone might be walking around right now in his dad’s favorite navy-blue sweater or in his mom’s house slippers. A family could be eating off their old dishes and drinking coffee out of his dad’s vast array of kitschy city mugs from places they’d gone on vacation.
And it did hurt, but it also didn’t because they were just things. They were things he didn’t need, and he didn’t want, and his parents would have been happy he’d donated it all rather than let them collect dust in an attic somewhere.
Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he pulled the honey stick out and drizzled it over his mug. The water rose, and he lifted it out just as his phone began to buzz along the counter. Ilan was half-tempted to ignore it. Whatever it was, it was likely nothing good, and he wasn’t sure he had the stomach to listen to Julian talk about just how in love he was.
But then he remembered Fredric, and worry took over his need for isolation. He snatched it up, then his eyes went wide when he saw the name on the screen.
Preston: I had to switch up my schedule for an emergency surgery, can we change days?
Ilan: Clearly I have a lot going on, so…
Preston: Cute. I hate to be a pain.
Ilan: If anyone knows what it’s like, it’s me. It’s no big deal. When are you free?
Preston: Sunday or Monday night. I know, it sucks.
Ilan: I’ll let you know when I can pencil you in.
He turned his phone to silent after that, not wanting to engage anymore. Although being alone with his thoughts was wholly and completely terrifying—especially now that when he looked in the mirror, he saw more stranger than a man he recognized.
Taking a long sip of his tea, Ilan padded to the back room and stared around at the sea of empty boxes. What he should do was spend the day breaking them all down and prepping them for recycling. Then he should go room by room and start putting his touches around the place so it would begin to feel like a home.
Instead, he set his mug down and pulled open a drawer, rummaging around until he found his swim trunks and a rash guard. It was a tight fit—he couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn it, but he got the damn thing over his head, and he could still breathe, so that was a good sign.
He took a last sip of his tea, then dropped it on the kitchen counter and grabbed his shades before he walked out the back door. His sandals slapped along the crumbling dock, and he found the kayak filled with a little rain from the night before. He managed to tip most of it out, then hunted for the paddle, which was stuck in a patch of over-grown grass.
The handle was sun damaged and a little prickly against his bare hands, but it would be worth a couple of blisters to get his muscles really moving. He had skipped the gym a lot lately, and his nightly crunches weren’t making up for it. He was starting to feel soft in ways he wasn’t ready for, and it felt good when his arms began to burn after the first couple of strokes.
His little strip of water was narrow, but ahead, he could see where it opened up, and he let himself glide, turning his face up toward the sun and squinting behind his sunglasses. He’d probably burn, but he didn’t care. He could use a little color on his skin, and he desperately needed the fresh air in his lungs.
Something was rising in him, something like freedom, but not quite. He felt connected and at peace, and he realized it had been a goddamn long time since he’d let himself simply be. Stillness was never his friend, but he’d gone too long without it. Digging the paddle in the water, he pushed along farther.
The