Page 4 of Everywhere You Look

Dean is always there to keep me steady. Since the day I met him, he’s been like a limb I didn’t realize I was missing. I sag into his hold like a limp noodle, relying on him to be my support, and he doesn’t disappoint.

Dean never disappoints.

“She’s dead, Dean. Gigi is dead. Four days ago we were teaching Lemmie and Mellie how to play pickleball in the park and now she’s never coming back. Isn’t that the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever fucking heard?” I cry. Dean’s lip trembles as he brushes a hand over my cheek.

“Yeah, Luke. It really fucking is.”

I lean my head on Dean’s shoulder and let him lead me to a seat while I sink into my grief.

“It was a beautiful service,Luke. Gigi would have loved it.”

I’m sitting on the giant sectional sofa in Gigi’s living room, peeling the label off the glass bottle of anon-alcoholic brew. I would have liked to have a full-alcohol IPA, but I’ve got three little girls who now depend on me for everything. I can’t take care of them if I allow myself to drown my sorrows in a bottle.

Besides, I already tried getting drunk once since Gigi died, but I couldn’t stomach it. Couldn’t bring myself to ingest the poison that helped take my sister from me.

The drunk driver who t-boned my sister’s Subaru on Geary Boulevard didn’t survive the crash, either. There’s no one left to hate, no one left to blame, so all I can do is blame alcohol.

I think it will be a long, long time before I’m able to enjoy a cocktail again.

I look up to see Kira, Dean’s sister and Gigi’s friend and next-door neighbor standing in front of me with a plate full of finger foods.

“You know, it feels like everyone has said that same thing to me today, and it hasn’t meant shit. But coming from you, Keeks? It actually helps.”

In her flowy black dress with the long, lacy sleeves, she’s got a real Stevie Nicks look going on. The whole witchy vibe has a familiar look to it, and then I realize Kira is wearing the dress Gigi wore to my first NFL honors ceremony. I kept a copy of that photo in my locker at Twin Peaks Stadium as areminder of everything my sister sacrificed to give me the life of my dreams.

I wonder if Kira borrowed it before or after the accident. Either way, Gigi would have loved seeing her good friend in one of her outfits.

She was generous like that. My sister was always willing to give someone the shirt—or dress—off her back.

Kira gives me a soft smile as she settles onto the armrest next to me, offering her plate out to me. I shake my head. I don’t have the stomach for mini quiche. Even bacon, mushroom, and swiss quiche that I painstakingly chose for this reception when I should have been grieving.

I understand that food is comfort and that I need to thank the friends and coworkers that have taken time out of their day to pay their respects to my sister this morning, but I sort of resent that on top of everything else—losing my sister, losing my career, gaining three kids who now depend on me for everything—I’m also expected to host a reception.

I resent those damn mini quiches, too. Mini quiches never have to experience grief.

Lucky bastards.

“That’s because you know Gigi and I shared the same fucked-up sense of humor. She would have loved all the uncomfortable awkwardness whenpeople caught sight of the Redwoods jersey. She also would have laughed her ass off when you tripped over the dirt pile and almost fell into the grave with the coffin. I had to bury my face in my husband’s lapel and pretend that I was crying to hide my giggles.”

I sigh, throwing my head back over the back of the couch and rolling my eyes at myself while Kira softly laughs.

“Yeah, Gigi would have loved to see me eat shit. She would have said I deserved it for all the times I nearly sent her to an early grave when I was a teenager,” I say, my eyes stinging as I run a hand over my face. The crowd of mourners has thinned out, leaving only a few stragglers chatting with their coats on by the front door. And, of course, Dean and Kira. I sigh as I look around at the too-empty, too-quiet living room.

“I should go next door and get the girls,” I say, putting my hands on my thighs to push myself up off the couch. Lemmie, Mellie, and Ollie have spent the day next door with Kira and Dean’s parents, who were kind enough to watch them along with Kira’s daughter, Cami. Her husband, Warren, went over to help them out a few hours ago.

“Don’t worry about it. Pops and IronDad are having the time of their lives with the twins, and Renmight throw a fit if you try to take Ollie away from him. That British fucker has baby fever so bad. He doesn’t care that I’ve already got one of his little parasites growing in here, he keeps trying to knock me up anyway,” she laughs, running a hand over the slight swell of her belly.

“Madre de Dios, Keeks. Stop talking about your sex life. Luke doesn’t need to hear about your husband inseminating you. Pops just texted. They want to know if the twins can have ice cream before dinner?” Dean appears from the kitchen, posing the ice cream question to me while slinging a cherry-patterned dish rag over his shoulder.

“Man, if your dads are offering, they can definitely have ice cream. They can have an entire Dairy Queen if it makes them happy. Anything to keep them from crying…” I trail off as Dean settles on the couch next to me, tapping his knee against my injured one. I’m fucking up. Feeding the girls ice cream won’t hide them from their grief. The twins don’t fully understand what’s happened yet, and it feels like all they do is cry while they try to process the unthinkable fact that their mommy is gone forever.

Hell, all I do is cry, too. I can’t blame them. But I can try to soothe them with ice cream, I guess.

“You’re not a bad guardian, Luke. It’s okay togive them a little leeway while you all transition,” Dean says, reading my mind.

“Exactly. Let them have the ice cream. You won’t have to deal with the sugar crash because I’m keeping the little snuggle bugs overnight,” Kira says, pushing off the arm of the chair and to her feet. “And don’t worry, I’ll make sure they eat at least one bite of vegetables and brush their teeth before bed, too.”

I close my eyes, unable to tamp down the overwhelming gratitude coursing through me. It was a total fluke that Gigi and I both became intertwined with the McKenna clan. The first time me and Dean met off the field at a charity for LGBTQIA+ youth in sports back in college, we clicked. When we spent two seasons playing on the same team—me as his proverbial understudy—we became inseparable. We played each other often while we were both in the league, but even though we were rivals on the field, we’ve been best friends in life for years.

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