Page 45 of The Rest is History

“Okay.” He stands outside the truck, chewing on his lip. “Do you want to come and see my apartment?” he says suddenly.

I shouldn’t.

But he looks so hopeful, and I just know if I say yes his eyes will get all wide and sparkly. These days, all I want is to see those eyes shine like that. “Sure.”

And there it is. Reece smiles and stars explode in his eyes.

The apartment is small enough that I can get the gist of everything from right where I’m standing – in the middle of the tiny living room. Still, I follow him when he gives me a tour. On the right, is the kitchen. Left is the living room. Bathroom down the short passage and the bedroom across from it.

I step into his bedroom when he leads the way. Everything is neat and tidy. Reece is a good housekeeper.

Still, even though everything is neat as a pin, he scurries around putting away the book he left on his bed. There’s a journal on the nightstand, which he places into the drawer. And a small bag, which he now holds in his hand.

“Sorry, I cleaned up this morning before work . . .” He turns to me, clutching his bottom lip between his teeth and the bag held close to his chest.

“It’s totally fine. Your place is great. I like it.”

“You like it?”

After knowing him for a little over a month, even though I’ve known him through Asher for seven years, I still can’t get past how someone would bloom open like a flower when you praise them in even the smallest way.

“I really like it,” I say, and it’s impossible to ignore how pleased he is by my approval.

He seems to remember the thing he has clutched to his chest. Looking at it, his smile disappears and his eyes, when he lifts them to meet mine, now seem unsure of something.

He holds out the bag. It’s shiny and see-through. “Did Asher tell you about my – that I had – this belongs – belonged to—”

It’s an item of baby clothing. “Your daughter?” My voice has dropped to a level of softness I didn’t know I was capable of.

He smiles brightly. “Yes.”

Smiling with a broken heart. I wish he would take off the mask for one second and feel his love for his daughter. To feel his grief because his grief proves his love for her. But I understand. Facing the depth of his love for his daughter would break him because he wouldn’t know how to find rest from it.

Grief has no home. There’s no place for it to go and find rest. It can only walk beside you, a delicate butterfly dragging a mountain of memories behind it until the end of time. Reece’s daughter may have lived only fifteen minutes but he’ll carry a lifetime of memories, the ones made in those fifteen minutes and the ones he will never get to make.

When my mother died, I thanked the police officer for coming out to tell me about her Diabetes type one and I got on with things. And even though my father isn’t dead, he might as well be, and I walk around with a broken heart and a smiling face, feeling like an orphan. I understand Reece’s pain.

“Wait,” he says. “Let me show you how soft these socks are.” His hands shake when he unties the ribbon. I have to look away because I don’t feel like I deserve to witness his tightly-contained grief. If there is anyone he should be sharing this with, it’s Asher. His best friend.

He holds out the pair of yellow socks to me.

I have to clear my throat before I speak. “Are you sure? I ask. “My hands . . .” I hold them up, palms out. “My hands are dirty. I’ll ruin them.”

“You can’t ruin anything, Sawyer,” he says. His eyes stay on me and his words are very, very dangerous.

I step closer, wipe my palms on the side of my jeans, trying to get them clean, and then I take the pair of socks in my hand. He smiles too hard. If he smiles any harder, he’ll cry.

“Smell it. Does it smell like a baby? I could – I could never tell. All I could smell that day was that sick medicine smell you get in hospitals.”

I hold the material carefully, worried I’ll dirty it, and then I lift it to my nose. It doesn’t smell like a baby. Not like Ezra, anyway. It doesn’t smell like anything. But how do I tell him that when he’s looking at me with so much hope in his eyes. The truth will be unbearable.

“It smells like a baby,” I tell him.

He smiles.

“I’m sorry about your daughter, Reece,” I say as gently as I can manage.

Another bright smile. “Thank you.”

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