Page 96 of From Nowhere

Sunday morning, Ozzy brings me breakfast in bed with six dandelions and a note.

Please don’t judge. These aren’t yard weeds. Dandelions are edible and nutritious and a sign of healthy soil. They symbolize happiness, joy, resilience, and perseverance—and a bunch of other wonderful things. Hope you love them!

Ozzy x

I glance up from the note. “I think the only flower you ever need to give me is the mighty dandelion.”

Ozzy laughs.

“Where’s our breakfast?” I ask.

“Under the sheets.” He winks.

After my breakfast and his, we get to work around the house.

We install the LED strip lights in Lola’s freshly painted room; then he finishes fixing the car. After lunch, we head to the backyard to plant Tia’s seedlings.

“Can I ask you something?” I say.

He chuckles, running a box cutter through the top of the compost bag while I loosen last year’s garden soil with a hoe. I’m sure Ozzy looks like sin in a suit, but I can’t get enough of him in ripped, faded jeans, stained T-shirts, and dirty boots.

“It must be something heavy,” he says. “I’ve noticed that you ask me if youcanask me something before you delve into a heavy subject. But you can ask me anything. No permission or preamble needed.”

“Where were you when the accident happened?”

He pauses for a few seconds, eyebrows pinched. Then he sets the box cutter aside and spreads the compost. “Too fucking far away.”

I work the compost into the soil with the hoe, but I don’t look at him, because I know he’s not looking at me. There are stages of confession.

Thinking it.

Saying it.

And looking someone in the eye. That’s the hardest one.

I still avert my gaze when talking about my brother. Other people’s sympathy unravels my emotions.

“I was in Las Vegas for a bachelor party. My mom called and ...” He shakes his head slowly before tossing aside the empty bag and opening another one. “I don’t remember how I made it home. My buddies somehow got me on a plane and then to the hospital. Lola was in surgery. Brynn and my dad were—”

I pause my motion. “Your dad?”

“Yeah.” He scatters the compost and takes the hoe from me, keeping busy while I try to remember if he ever told me about his dad. Ozzy clears his throat while the lines etched along his forehead deepen. “He was in the car too.”

“Was he driving?”

Ozzy shakes his head, and I wait for him to elaborate. He doesn’t. I’m left with many new questions, but asking them would feel like forcing him to share more than he’s ready to say.

Why was it just the three of them?

Where were they going?

Why do Brynn’s parents blame Ozzy?

Was the accident her fault or that of another driver?

I start to speak. “You don’t have to—”

“He needed a ride home from the bar,” Ozzy says, stabbing a clump of dirt with the hoe. “He drank too much. Healwaysdrank too much. My mom used to pick him up, but when her vision deteriorated and she lost her license, I was the one who picked him up. But I was gone, so he should have called a cab. Instead, Brynn and Lola picked him up. At first, Lola didn’t remember what happened. But eventually, she recalled my dad vomiting. So I think that distracted Brynn, and she veered into oncoming traffic. Luckily, nobody in the car they hit was killed.”

---