Page 11

JACK

Aside from making myself look like an idiot at Luke’s coffee shop this morning, today hasn’t been as bad as I thought it would be.

I thought the day would continue to go downhill when I got to the fire station and knocked on Chief Sanders’ office door. But the familiarity of the place, the faces, and even the work itself outweighed the reminders of being there without Bennett.

As part of my probation, I’m still expected to report to any active fires we get called to, but he said he has our Fire Lieutenant keeping a close eye on me, ready to report back if there are any issues in the field.

I reluctantly agreed to the sessions, mostly because I don’t need anyone watching out for me when we go out on calls.

But if even one fire analogy comes out of the therapist’s mouth, I will flip the coffee table this time.

After my meeting with the chief, I went to the gym to burn off some anxiety that formed in my gut when my mind started spiraling. But, after a five-mile run on the treadmill and a killer back and biceps lift, the thoughts were nowhere to be found.

Since I let my lease run out for the apartment I shared with Bennett, I didn’t really have anywhere else to go, and I didn’t want to keep prolonging the inevitable of going home and seeing my mom and sister.

When I got there, I wished I had come home sooner.

Seeing my mom and Emerson was something I didn’t know I needed.

Just like with the fire station, my childhood home, my mother’s cooking, and messing with Emerson was like a breath of fresh air after feeling like I’ve been inhaling smoke the last year and a half.

My mom’s arms wrap around me before I can even shut the front door behind me. “I’m so happy you’re home,” she says as I feel her head rest against my chest.

“Hi, Ma.” I hold her close to me, resting my chin on the top of her head.

“We missed you,” she says, stepping out of my hold, putting her hands on her hips as she looks at me. I watch her brows raise as her eyes settle on my face. “You need to shave.”

I can help the laugh that escapes my lips, my hand instinctively going to my beard, feeling the grown out hair.

I make a mental note to shave before I go to bed tonight, needing to get rid of any overgrown facial hair before I’m back at work—it’s been a while since I’ve needed to stay clean-shaven to properly seal a mask or respirator.

“Is Emmy here?” I close the front door and follow my mom further into the house. It hasn’t changed at all since the last time I was home—saturated with memories in every nook and cranny—and it settles some tension in my shoulders.

Before my mom can say anything, my question is answered for me.

“I didn’t think it was possible for you to get even uglier,” I hear as we walk into the kitchen, finding my sister leaning against the counter, a smirk on her face.

“I could say the same to you,” I joke with a smile on my face, happy to see her.

Closing the space between us, I pull my sister in for a quick hug, feeling her half-assed attempt to hug me back before we fall into easy conversation among the three of us.

As my mom finishes cooking, refusing any help Emerson or I try to offer, I listen to her discuss all the neighborhood gossip as well as get all of the updates on my sister’s life—where she’s living, her job, and what she’s been up to.

The conversation is easy—easier than I thought it would be.

Neither my mom nor my sister even mention how long it’s been since I’ve been home, and they don’t attack me with questions like I thought they would.

At least not right away.

“Are you going to be staying here at Mom’s?” my sister asks as she finishes her second piece of french silk pie. Out of the two Hasting siblings, she has a big enough sweet tooth for the both of us, especially when it comes to chocolate—I can’t stand the stuff.

“Until I find a place, yeah,” I answer, taking a sip of my beer.

“I helped Luke and Annie pack up all the stuff in your apartment. They took Bennett’s stuff, and yours is all packed up here in the basement,” she says, matter-of-factly, as if we’re catching up on the latest news.

“Thanks,” I say, knowing that couldn’t have been easy for the three of them. Luke and Annie have known each other since they were kids, meaning Annie also lost Bennett. Not only did she have to deal with her own loss, but she had to help Luke with his.

Same goes for Emerson. Although she was younger than me and Bennett, she knew him as my best friend her whole life.

The thought of the three of them having to pack up all of his stuff—and then my sister having to deal with all my shit too—makes me feel nauseous.

Emerson’s deep green eyes find mine as she sets her fork on her plate, leaning back in the dining room chair, crossing her tattooed arms over her chest—she’s gotten more since I last saw her, and her dark brown hair is much longer than it was a year and a half ago, with blunt bangs hanging just under her eyebrows, hiding the silver piercing she has on the left one.

“What?” I ask, feeling like I’m in trouble. Even though she’s eight years younger than me, she has a way of making me feel like she’s the older of the two of us.

“You broke her heart,” Emerson whispers, her voice tight with anger, and I know she’s talking about our mom.

I shake my head, guilt washing over me as I look over Emerson’s chair to see her washing dishes in the kitchen, refusing any help we try to offer her like always.

“I couldn’t be here, Emmy,” I say, not able to apologize for leaving.

I don’t know what would have happened—what I would’ve done—if I stayed. “I needed time to figure my shit out.”

“So you’re back for good?” Her voice grows in volume, and anger. “Or until something bad happens and you need to run away again?”

“That’s not fair,” I grit out, my palms clenching into fists. “I didn’t run away, I?—”

“You ran away, Jack. Just like Grandpa, just like Dad. You ran.”

“I did not run.”

Emerson lets out a humorless laugh. “When Grandma died, Grandpa hid in that cabin until he croaked. Dad left and never came back when Mom got sick. And now you? Your best friend dies, and you run.”

I bang my fist against the dining table causing my beer and Emerson’s plate and fork to rattle.

“Jacky? Emmy?” I hear from the kitchen. “No fighting at the dinner table,” my mom reprimands in her calm yet firm tone.

The same one she’s used since we were kids.

The same one she used when she told us about her ovarian cancer.

The same one she used when she said Dad was gone and wasn’t coming back.

“Sorry,” we both say in unison, but our eyes are still on each other.

“You might be back, but you’re not fine.

You can tell everyone how fine you are, but until you actually deal with losing Bennett, you might as well have stayed up in that cabin.

” She grabs her plate and stands, walking toward the kitchen, leaving me with her words, ripping all that fresh air I got today straight from my lungs.

I unclench my fists, tension spreading through my fingers, and lower my head into my hands. Stay at the cabin? Drown myself in my grief? Let it completely destroy me?

Doesn’t she see that isn’t an option?

I sit up, taking the last swig of my beer, and get up to head into the kitchen.

Emerson is leaning on the counter across from where my mom is loading the dishwasher.

The yellow walls still glow with warmth, and the familiar hum of the old fridge and the running sink fill the silence.

The wooden cabinets, now slightly dulled, still hold the same sturdy charm, and the crisp, citrus scent of all-purpose cleaner lingers in the air.

“Oh, Jacky,” my mom starts as she closes the dishwasher and shuts off the sink. “Mr. Lenard from down the street mentioned a property he’s looking to sell. It’s not too far from the station. It’s newly renovated too. I could tell him you’re interested?”

She turns to face me, leaning against where the sink meets the counter, and I feel both hers and Emerson’s eyes on me. My mom’s dark, silver-streaked hair is pulled back loosely. Laugh lines frame her eyes like gentle reminders of all the happy memories of her, Emerson, and me.

She looks smaller than I remembered, but still unmistakably solid—like someone who’d held up the whole world without ever asking for thanks, even as a single mom with a cancer diagnosis and years in a constant state of apprehension on whether or not she’ll stay in remission.

It’s been the three of us since my mom got diagnosed with ovarian cancer when Emerson was two, and I haven’t seen or heard from my dad since—not that he was even around much before that.

I clear my throat, walking over to the corner of the kitchen with the garbage bins, tossing my beer bottle into the recycling. “Yeah, Ma. That would be great. You can give Mr. Lenard my number.”

She gives me a soft smile and a nod before asking, “How is it being home without him?”

My mom is no stranger to my friendship with Bennett, having watched it bloom and grow since we were kids. “It’s fine,” I answer, the word feeling more like a lie on my lips when I say it to my mother. “I think he’d want me to move on.”

“I think he’d want you to be happy,” she counters. “You mentioned Chief Sanders said you had to see a therapist?”

I nod.

“Good,” she says. “That’ll be good.”

She steps toward me, wrapping her arms around my waist and pulling me in. I rest my chin on the top of her head as I wrap my arms around her shoulders, her body feeling so small and fragile against mine. I sense Emerson’s eyes on us.

I don’t tell my mom how I think the therapy sessions are a joke, that they’ll be a waste of time. The last thing anyone can expect me to do is bring up all the memories or emotions that come with talking about Bennett or what happened the night he died.

I don’t tell her that I will never talk about that night, no matter who asks.

“Well,” my mom says, tapping me on the back twice before stepping out of my embrace. I pretend not to notice the tear she wipes away with the back of her hand. “It’s getting late, and you two both have places to be.”

“Mom, it’s eight o’clock,” my sister says, from where she’s still leaning against the counter. Her voice has her usual no-bullshit tone, but there is a layer of worry in her voice. “You’re tired?”

Emerson, more so than me, has always had a front-row seat to my mom’s cancer, having lived with it since she was two years old, up until my mom went into remission when she was 15. Then there was the recurrence, and she wasn’t back in remission until Emerson was 21.

She’s been fine ever since, thankfully.

My mom tsks. “I’m fine, Emmy. Just tired after a long day.” She waves her hands like my sister is being silly with her concern. “Are you going to the bar with Jack?”

“You said all you did today was pot some new plants outside,” I add, my own concern blooming with the way my mom tries to change the subject.

“The sun really takes it out of me these days.”

Emerson doesn’t seem convinced—and I can’t say that I fully am either—but she lets it go for now. I look passes between the two of us, no words needed.

We need to keep an eye on Mom.

My mom grabs my arm on her way out of the kitchen toward the stairs that lead to the house's three bedrooms. “I’ll call you tomorrow after I talk to Mr. Lenard about the house.” She pulls me on the arm, urging me to come down to her height, and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

“Be sure to wake me up when you get home tonight. I don’t care how late it is. ”

“Ma, I’m not in high school,” I complain, especially knowing how tired she is and not wanting her to lose any necessary rest.

“I don’t care,” she says, patting my cheek. “You know the rules. They haven’t changed since you’ve been gone.” She gives me a smile before walking toward Emerson, giving my sister a hug and whispering something in her ear that I can’t make out, before heading up to bed.