Page 69 of Lighting the Lamp
“Yeah, but so does loving me, Cooper, or literally anyone who’s ever had the misfortune of being in our orbit. You still do it anyway.”
I let out a mangled, helpless sound. Something between a half laugh and a half sob, I’m too stubborn to give in. I press the heel of my hand into my sternum like I can hold myself together with pressure alone.
“You’re not helping.”
“I know, but that’s why Cooper and I left our ladies in the city to come home and invite you to do something even stupider. We’re playingMario Kartin the basement. Get your ass over here. You can be the sad one who keeps falling off Rainbow Road.”
I exhale slowly, my grip tightening on the steering wheel. They came home. Cooper and Cole packed up and left the city—not for a holiday, not for a game, but for me. Left Ramona and Michele behind because they knew. They always know. Even when I don’t say the words, and I’m still pretending that I’ve got everything under control.
It cracks something open in my chest I’d been holding closed for too long. They’re down there right now in the basement we grew up in. Probably sitting on the old couch, controllers in hand, yelling about banana peels and fake rules. They’re waiting for me like it’s any other night when we were young, stupid, and invincible. But I’m not that kid anymore.
I’m not the same thirteen-year-old who couldn’t stop the worst day of our lives from happening. The one who stood in the parking lot, covered in dirt and guilt, watching my mom fall apart as she begged the paramedics to bring our father back.Watching Cooper take control. Watching Cole break. I never figured out what I was supposed to do at that moment. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.
Ghosts haunt every corner of our childhood home. Momma humming softly in the kitchen while making dinner. Cooper’s footsteps creaking across the floor at 2:00 a.m. when he couldn’t sleep after a loss. Cole’s music too loud—always too loud. Kyle’s voice cracking as he shouted at a video game in the living room, desperate to keep up with us. And me somewhere in the middle, trying to be enough for all of them.
I’m so fucking tired of being the one who’s always fine. The one pretending my body doesn’t ache in places I can’t name. Being the anchor in the storm for everyone else and acting like this thing with Alise isn’t carving me hollow. Of being strong enough to play through pain but too scared to let anyone see the parts of me that are breaking.
I know they’d understand if I walked through that door and fell apart, but I don’t want them to see me like this. If I go down there and see them waiting—the love in their eyes, the worry, and the stubborn Hendrix loyalty—I’ll break. And I don’t know if I’ll be able to put myself back together.
“Not today.”
I press my knuckles to my mouth and breathe through the pressure. It matters that they’re here. It matters more than I can say, but I can’t just run home to be with my brothers. Not now. I can’t pretend I’m okay. Not even forMario Kartand the dumb-ass jokes they’d use to prop me up.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“All right,” he responds gently, letting me know they’ll be there waiting, just in case. “But if you sit in your truck long enough to develop a back injury, I’m not letting Michele withinfive inches of you. That’s my girl, and the only person she is massaging is me.”
“Come on, Cole. Sharing is caring.” A laugh scratches at the back of my throat.
“No. Sharing is for losers, especially when it concerns my girl’s hands being anywhere near your body. You’re on a sad-boy timeout. Text one of us when you’re on your way home.”
There’s a beat of quiet between us, long enough to exhale before he speaks again. “You waiting for her to open the door?”
I don’t answer right away, and my eyes flick to the porch again. The glow of that light is burning steady like it always does. My parents always kept the porch light on overnight when we were kids. Dad used to say he kept it on in case any of us ever lost our way. It’s funny how something so small can still feel like a lifeline. Even now. Especially now.
“No.” The word barely makes it out. “I’m waiting so she knows I didn’t run.”
He’s quiet for a long time, probably because he might be the only person to understand why I’m doing it. Cole knows what it means to wait for someone who’s scared. To love someone who’s been through too much and still can’t believe you’ll stay.
“You want me to come sit with you?”
My throat tightens at the memories flooding my mind. My throat tightens. Alise used to always do that, offering me quiet companionship like it was nothing and everything at the same time. She’d sit beside me on the bench outside the rink after a tough game, passing me a granola bar and not saying a word. Just being there for me. She’s always been there for me, even when I didn’t deserve her.
“Nah,” I say, voice low and wrecked. “Thanks, though.”
“I can bring you coffee, a pair of gloves because it’s fucking cold, or one of those sad little burritos from the gas station you pretend to hate because you probably haven’t eaten today.”
“You’ve got a gift for pep talks.”
I almost smile. The ache in my chest doesn’t leave, but it lessens just a little.
“I try.”
The quiet stretches between us again, not uncomfortable, just real.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” he says eventually.
