Page 49 of Always Been You
We stop at his parents’ graves, and the moment he sees them, he inhales sharply, like he’s trying to hold himself together. Then, his fingers tighten around mine—tight enough that I feel it in my bones. I squeeze back. My free hand moves to his back, rubbing slow, steady circles.
“Thank you.” His voice is barely above a whisper, like he’s speaking more to himself than to me.
Then, his eyes land on something.
“Did you leave these?” He nods toward the fresh lilies on the headstone.
I shake my head. “Probably my mom. Or my dad.” My family has been coming here regularly, and we held private ceremonies for their fifth and tenth death anniversaries. We even have a charity fund in their name that supports accident victims. After all, our fathers were best friends. Eddie seems to have forgotten that, or maybe he’s just convinced himself he’s been alone for a long time.
He nods slowly, his gaze lingering on the flowers like they hold a whole lifetime he can’t get back.
“They were her favorite.” His voice is rough and strained, like the words are scraping his throat.
I don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say.
A pause. Then…
“Did you…?” He stops and closes his eyes for a second. I know he’s trying to steady himself. “Did you clean this place up?”
I shake my head again. “No. We have people who do that regularly.”
His jaw clenches, his fingers flexing like he’s trying to hold something in. A tear slips down his cheek, but he doesn’t wipe it away. I’m glad he’s able to show his emotions and share them with me. For a moment I thought he lost the ability to feel.
“How am I ever going to repay you?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t do it alone. Everyone pitched in. Mom, Dad, Ariel… everyone.”
Another tear. Then he turns back to the graves.
I hesitate before pointing at the small sculpture resting on top of the headstone—a couple, hands intertwined.
“I did sculpt that, though,” I say, voice quiet.
He stares at it for a long time, his fingers brushing over the stone. His shoulders shake just a little, but he doesn’t make a sound. He’s silent for a moment before sinking into the grass, brushing off the dust on the headstone.
“You know, since I got back, I kept telling myself I was going to come here,” he says, his voice steady, but his grip on my hand tightens. “But I just... couldn’t bring myself to do it. I didn’t know how I’d take it.”
He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I know I can take on the whole world, but when it comes to my parents... I don’t know.”
I don’t say anything. I just let him speak; let him have this moment.
He swallows, his jaw tightening, then his breath catching for a second. “Some mornings, I wake up to ‘Dear Heavenly Father, sometimes it’s hard to understand your ways and plans in our lives, especially when bad things happen…’” His voice trails off.
“The sermon,” I murmur, and he nods.
“Other times, it’s the crash.” His jaw clenches, his fingers flexing against mine. “It’s like there are different versions, different variations, and I no longer know which is real. No, I do. I just refuse to accept it. It was easier to plot, to plan, to delude myself into thinking they were just far away. But being here today?” He shakes his head, his breath coming out in a slow, measured exhale. “It makes it all clear again. And it renews something in me.”
I catch the shift in his tone. A darker edge.
“Renews what?” I ask carefully.
His lips press into a thin line, then he waves me off. “Nothing.”
Bullshit. But I let it go. He came back for something else. Something more than just grief. I want to ask, but not now. When he’s ready, he’ll tell me.
He inhales, then finally turns toward the headstone.
“Hey, Mom…” His voice softens, warmer now, that slight accent from years abroad curling around the words. My heart clenches.
