Page 117 of What I Like About You

When we arrive at Grams’s covered placard I need to close my eyes and remind myself she’s not here. Ollie holds my hand and I squeeze it so tight because I cannot cry. Today is not about me. I can do this for Gramps; I can be here for him. I can give him the biggest hug and say I still miss her too.

Gramps replaces the old flowers with the new before the rabbi starts the prayers.

“Still miss you, Mir,” Gramps says. “Every day.”

And … I burst into tears.

“I—I’m so sorry,” I cough.

“Halle,” Gramps says.

“I can’t—”

I choke. Choke on my words, as always, and my tears. All I see is Grams in a box, Grams being lowered into the ground, strangers giving their condolences. Someday it’ll be Gramps in the box. Then it’ll be Mom and Dad. Eventually it’ll be me, just gone, like I was never here. I’ll be awasinstead of anis. We all become past tense. Everyone. So what’s the point of—

“Breathe,” Ollie says, exerting pressure on my hand.

“It’s okay, Hal,” Gramps says.

“I can’t be here,” I say.

“Okay,” he says.

He looks at Ollie, who nods, and we descend backward, just the two of us. Away from Grams, away from the plaques announcing the bodies buried underneath. Sometimes I squeeze my eyes shut and let Ollie lead me. He takes me down the hill and through the parking lot and into the back seat of the car. I reach for my cell phone in the cup holder, scroll through my apps without looking at anything, and I can breathe again.

I wipe running eyeliner from under my eyes.

“I’m the worst,” I say.

Ollie shakes his head. “I am.”

“No,” I say. “You’re so strong.”

“I’m numb,” Ollie says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I miss her. But not like you do.”

“Oh,” I say, surprised by Ollie’s confession. I always think my baby brother has everything together. Maybe he doesn’t.

“I suck,” Ollie says.

“No.” I shake my head. “I’m pretty sure you’re the best thing that happened to Gramps this year. Actually, no. I’mpositive.”

Ollie presses his back against the seat and closes his eyes. “If I let myself think about it, I getsoangry. Grams ranmarathonsand she still got lung cancer. You can do everything right … and what? It doesn’t even matter? She’ll never get to see us do anything—graduate or go to college or fall in love or try and fail our way to success. It’s bullshit.”

I wrap my arms around Ollie. “Totally bullshit.”

We stay like this for a breath.

When I let go, Ollie presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. “So much for numb.”

We spot Gramps in the distance coming down the walkway, returning to us. I relocate to my spot in the front passenger seat, already wording and rewording all the variations of what to say next in my brain. Starting withI’m so sorryand ending withI love you. The words that fill the space between are still to be determined.

Gramps gets in the car and closes the driver-side door.

“Are you okay, Hal?” he says.

“I’m so sorry—”

“Stop,” Gramps says. “Let me talk.”

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