I tug on his sleeve until he lowers his hand and opens his eyes. He continues to look … tortured.
I bite my lip and swallow. “I do know what you mean. I wasn’t allowed to go to the wake—no one would let me see him … after. For years—years, I convinced myself it wasn’t true. He was in another room. Or still at work. He’d gotten some extra-needy client who took all his time. And soon, really soon, he’d be home. Sitting next to me at family dinner—his lefty elbow bumping against my righty—or leaving sticky notes with we’ve-got-a-golf-date reminders or saw-your-math-test-I’m-proud-of-you messages on my bathroom mirror or in my lunch bag.”
I feel naked, but there’s no way to cover up the parts I’ve just exposed, so I clench my fists instead. “I get your need for closure.”
“It’s not the same, Brighton. It’s not the same at all. I had no idea. I’m sorry.”
I’ve never seen pity on his face before. I don’t like it.
“I’m sure it’s hard, but it’ll get better. It takes time.”
Even the tone of his voice has changed.
I step away from the hug he’s offering, hold my hands up toward him. “Stop. Just stop. Please.”
Jonah’s arms drop to his sides and he’s a split second away from getting pissed. “I was just—”
“Not you too. I’ve spent five years in school with people who know and treat me like a tragic character because of it. ‘That’s Brighton Waterford, her dad died—handle with care.’” I take a step toward him, starting to bridge the chasm that’s grown since I refused his hug. “Except you. Maybe that’s part of why I wouldn’t leave you alone—even when it was painfully obvious you wanted me to.”
“Because I was an ass?”
“Because you treated me as badly as you treated everyone else. You haven’t coddled me. I’d rather you be an ass than act like I’m breakable.” I hold my breath as I watch him think this through. He’s quiet for longer than I’d like. Studying me more intensely than I’d like.
“Are ass and coddler my only options?” he asks.
I laugh. “Shut up.”
“When did he die?” It’s a question in his regular voice, and I realize the flip side of Jonah not being here when it happened. He might not baby me, but he also doesn’t know already.
The smile slips from my face, and I swallow a few times before answering. “Five years ago. Exactly five years. There’s a memorial service tomorrow. I should be fine by now, right? I should be able to talk about him. Mom and Evy talk about him all the time.”
“So, go ahead. Talk.”
I can’t. I turn away from him to catch my breath.
“So where are we headed?” I ask.
“We’re here. This is my old house.” Jonah pauses to study it for a moment before he leads the way up the driveway.
He sits on the steps of a back deck, and I join him. He’s staring at something invisible, something that has significance to him and not me. All I can see is this backyard bleeding into his neighbors’, blending with the one beyond that. Is he thinking about his old life or his new one? About me?
We’re sitting so close. My damp dress is cold in contrast to the heat that radiates off him. I’d like that hug now—if I could think of a way to ask for it without being lame. His face is unreadable. The faraway look of an in-class daydream. He looks unreachable, and sitting two inches away, I’m lonely.
“How do you—” I jump when he speaks. He clears his throat and starts again, “How do you handle something like that? I can’t even handle a divorce at eighteen.”
“My mom went to pieces”—I shiver thinking about her days and days in bed, leaving only to go to the bathroom or refill whatever was in her travel mug and throw TV dinners in the microwave for us. “Evy lashed out at everyone: cursing at Mr. Donnelly when he asked how she was; getting a speeding ticket in Dad’s car when she didn’t even have a permit. And that was after she ran over his golf bag, then dumped the whole thing into the lake at the club. I didn’t have a choice. I had to deal with it.
“It was when Evy packed herself a can of beer for lunch instead of a soda that Mom finally snapped out of it and began parenting again.” Spilling confessions to a recently tarred driveway and the sandbox in the next yard is easier than to his face, but I have to see his reaction. I’ve never said any of this out loud before—not even to Amelia, though she was there to see some of it. I look at him and hold my breath while he shakes his head.
“Crap,” Jonah says again. His hand touches my shoulder. Just briefly, lightly, but it keeps me from flying into a million pieces and chases the goosebumps off my arms—replacing them with a flash of heat. “What about you?”
“Me?”