Page 60 of The Late Hit
The two of us just lie there, side-by-side, heads together for a few quiet moments, watching Zac Efron on screen. There’s comfort in the silence, in having her beside me, my head resting on her shoulder. With the arm that isn’t holding her hand, I reach across our bodies and pull her in for an awkward hug.
“I love you, too,” I finally say. “But I just need to be alone with them.”
Her arm slides across mine, squeezing me back.
Before long, she gets up and walks toward the door.
“Call if you need anything,” she responds.
With one last look at me, she leaves my room, shutting the door behind her.
I love my friends. I love how big their hearts are and how much they care. And while most people would want to be surrounded by others, I learned to grieve alone.
Most people would have their parents to help them grieve on the hard days, but I didn’t. My parents were long gone before Bryce died, and once he was gone, they became nearly invisible. Each year, I’d wait for them to bring up this day. I remember my first year in college, waiting for a call from my mother to check on me. That call never came. So I learned to grieve alone.
Dedicating October twentieth as the day I mourn them both, I created my own tradition. I know that there will come a time when I won’t be able to shut out the world and spend the day alone, in my room, doing my traditions, but, for now, this is how I’m spending the anniversary.
Each year on the night before, I pull out my box of memorabilia. I look at the picture albums I made throughout the years, and look at all of our happy memories—trips to the zoo, weekends on Lake Michigan, play dates in the Nelsons’ backyard, first and last day of school pictures, and everything in between. It still hurts to see them, but I do have one picture of the three of us that I keep framed in my room, the rest of the memories stay buried in my heart and memory box. It’s in this box that I keep Bryce’s football sweatpants and Asher’s football sweatshirt that I sleep in every year.
On the day of, I stay in bed all day, only leaving for the necessities. My day in bed consists of watching all of our favorite movies—The Sandlot,Ted,Lone Survivor,The Lucky One, andHome Alone 2. Bryce dreamed of becoming a Navy SEAL. I’m not sure where his fascination came from, but we would watchLone Survivorover and over, and I’d watch his passion explode.
The Sandlotwas the go-to movie the three of us would watch. We had it memorized, and every time we’d watch, I’d get so pissed about the whole “you play ball like a girl” line because, guess what, I could play ball, and I was damn good at it. Bryce and Asher would always challenge me in throwing competitions, and I would beat them both. It was such an ego boost for me, but they’d get so pissed.
Tedwas the movie we watched the first time we smoked pot. The boys wanted to be just like Mark Wahlberg—do you see a Marky Mark trend here?—and smoke pot with a bear. We had seen this movie before, of course, but one night during our freshman year of high school, the boys wanted the full experience. Asher found a teddy bear that looked likeTed, and the three of us sat in our movie theater room and watchedTed, while smoking pot and eating all the food, with a damn bear. And yes, I kept that bear. And yes, each year I continue the tradition.
The movie I end the day with is alwaysHome Alone 2. We dubbed the second movie far superior to the first. I don’t want to be friends with anyone who thinks otherwise. One year for Christmas, Bryce surprised me with a turtledove, just like Kevin gave the Pigeon Lady of Central Park. And just like any kid, his wish was to go to a giant toy store and meet an old man like Mr. Duncan. He said that, even though we were twins, and even though we shared a part of each other, he wanted me to have the reminder that as long as we have our doves, we will be friends forever.
Before we buried him, I put his turtledove in his hand. Even in death, we’ll still be best friends. And the day I turned eighteen, I went to the tattoo parlor to have a turtledove tattooed on the back of my neck. It’s a constant reminder that, even though Bryce is gone, he’s with me, friends forever.
The afternoon rolls around, and I’ve finishedThe Lucky OneandThe Sandlot. My stomach begins to rumble telling me it’s time for sustenance. Reaching for my phone on my nightstand, I finally check my notifications for the first time. Before I check all of the text message notifications—all ten of them—I click on the Instagram app.
Clicking on the plus sign in the top corner, I scroll to mymemoriesalbum on my phone and select a few photos of Asher, Bryce, and myself. Quickly, I throw a vintage filter on the picture and post the image with the caption,Hope you both are giving Heaven some Hell. Up there on the gold streets crushing cans & running routes. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t miss you both. Love always, B.Hitting the share button, my first tribute photo of the three of us is out there. Yeah, I know they can’t see it, but a part of me hopes God has a screen so those we lost can see all of the birthday wishes and memorial pictures we share. I just want them to know that they’re never far from my mind.
Thelikenotifications start rolling in, but I close the app out. Getting up from my bed, I make my way downstairs, pulling up my text messages once I get into the kitchen. Reaching into the fridge, I glance up and check the time on the microwave. Twelve thirty. Whatever, it’s late enough, I pull out a bottle of beer. Twisting the cap off, I take a long pull before grabbing a leftover sub sandwich. I take my lunch over to the bar and climb up on a barstool. Now that I’ve got sustenance, I begin reading the messages and responding.
Closing out my roomies group chat, I go to the next unread message.
His reply comes instantly.
Ignoring Quinton’s missed phone call, I pull up his messages instead.
There are a couple of other messages from people I went to high school with. We might not talk anymore, but they always send a text today. I quicklylovetheir messages. The next name I see surprises me, even though it shouldn’t. She reaches out every year.
Attached to Grace's message is a picture of me and Asher from homecoming freshman year. We're posed on the grand staircase in my family home. My dress—a tight, one-shoulder, bubblegum-pink dress with rhinestone details—made me feel so beautiful, and Asher looked so good in his black tapered dress pants, white button up shirt, and matching bubblegum-pink tie. It's a picture I haven't seen before, and it instantly brings tears to my eyes.
Reading that message shakes me to my core. The tears I’ve been working hard to suppress since my meltdown this morning come crashing down. Hot tears stream down my face. I can’t believe we are having this conversation. Not only are we having it over text messages, but we are having it on the day we lost her son. It just doesn’t seem right to be talking about me loving someone else. And honestly, I don’t know what the hell is going on between Quinton and me. There’s no way she saw anything during the few encounters we had last weekend. Right?
My head is spinning and it’s not from the alcohol. I can’t have this conversation with her. Not today. Not ever. Typing out a response, I hit send and take another pull of my beer. I’m going to need another one soon.
I don’t bother to see if she responds. Instead, I turn the “Do Not Disturb” setting on, and toss my phone away from me. My mind is reeling, the sobs racking through my body. Sliding down the cabinet, I don’t stop until I’m fully seated on the floor. Bringing my knees to my chest, I wrap my arms around them as my head collapses.
I’m in such deep thought that I don’t even hear the front door open and close or the footsteps alerting me that I’m not alone. Strong, tan arms wrap around me, causing me to jump out of my skin. Body jerking, I spin around to see who the attacker is, and scream.
“Jesus, Brynn, it’s just me,” Cody says, rubbing soothing circles on my back. “I said your name like five times. Didn’t you hear me?”
“Clearly freaking not,” I retort. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Running his hand through his hair, he looks me over. He must see how miserable I’m doing because his shoulders physically drop.
