Page 92 of Ablaze

“Then fucking be here, Mala!” I almost boom but end up gritting it out, remembering we’re in a hospital corridor. “Don’t tell me you’re here, only to give yourself an out by staying at a hotel!”

Her watery eyes bounce between mine. “I wasn’t giving myself an out.”

My eyes stay on her. “You sure fooled me. Because the way I see it, it’s all you’ve been doing lately.”

Her face falls, her chin hitting her collarbone before she nods and looks back up at me. Her eyes pleading, apologetic. She must see the crack in my facade, because she takes a step forward and wraps her arms around me again, putting her head on my chest. “Well, I’m here now.”

Part Three

THE PRESENT

Theme Song: “Drive” by Incubus

Chapter Twenty-Eight

MALA

Present Day

Flames dance to the beat of the cool breeze, mocking the somber mood all around them. I stare into the scintillating pyre, lost in thoughts of the past few days.

Since Mom and Dad’s death, I’d been lucky enough to not have had to attend another funeral. There are times I feel guilty about it, but I don’t really remember it. Like I was mentally missing during their last rites and cremation. It’s unclear if the lack of those memories is a good or bad thing.

I remember the urns we received with their ashes better than the room I was standing inside. Better than the people who attended. Better than their condolences.

They were a happy teal color with gold edging for Dad, and an eggshell color with silver designs for Mom. I remember wondering what we’d do with them once their ashes were scattered in Lake Tahoe. Would we keep them on our mantel? Would we use them as vases? Would we pack them away so we could erase the memory of the day as much as possible?

In the end, I believe Rohan did the latter because I never saw those urns again.

Dean leans down to pick up his beer bottle wedged in the sand and takes a long swig. His eyes meet mine briefly before he plucks at the strings of his guitar and plays Storms by Fleetwood Mac.

He and Garrett exchange a few childhood memories of Grams, laughing softly, but my mind wanders again. Despite the reason I’ve been here over the past four days, it’s been emotionally exhausting.

I’ve been physically close to Dean–sharing the same bed with him–but other than embracing him well into the morning while he sobbed into my chest that first night, forcing him to eat because he’d get so caught up in planning everything from the funeral to writing the obituary to planning a wake that he’d forget to eat, to holding his hand through the funeral, we haven’t really spoken.

Not for the lack of me trying, though.

The bed dipped beside me and the familiar scent of sandalwood wafted into the surrounding air. I didn’t know what time it was, but Dean and his mom were still talking well after I excused myself to retreat into our shared bedroom. I’d fallen asleep to their muffled voices and the tiny wet spot of tears on my pillow.

It didn’t seem like he noticed when I left, anyway.

No matter how close we were physically or how our bodies wrapped around each other at night, all was erased in the morning, like two other people had performed the act.

He’d gotten upset when I told him I’d stay at a hotel, but he didn’t seem to want me here, either. I knew he was hurting. He’d had to bear a loss almost as great as the loss of a parent, and I understood that all too well, so I wanted to give him that space. After all, I was here for him. To support him. To shoulder some of his pain.

But that didn’t mean I didn’t want to poke a little deeper.

Time was running out for us too, in a way.

In only a couple of days, I’d be heading to L.A., and we’d be going back to the way things had been before I came here.

Infrequent texts, occasional conversation, nonexistent bouts of laughter.

Dean laid on his back, his palms behind his head. Even though it was dark, I saw him blink up at the ceiling.

Instinctively, my hand moved to his chest and for a second, he tensed under it before he relaxed.

I was losing him. That much, I was sure.

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