Page 27 of October: The Odd Ones, Stories of Love and Grovel

October went back to Jimmy and I got to my car and just sat there for a moment, staring at the steering wheel like it might offer me answers.

Every time I left and went back to that apartment, the one that technically had my name on the lease but didn't feel like mine, something inside me cracked a little more.

My real home was here, with October and the kids.

This was supposed to be it.

Our life.

Our mess.

Our mornings and dinners and fights and soft moments.

But then it always hit me, the long list of moments I missed.

The birthdays, the inside jokes I wasn't part of, the scraped knees I didn't kiss better, the tired looks she gave that I didn't notice because I thought we were permanent.

Like I could pick it all up later, like family worked like saving a game and coming back whenever it suited me.

I opened the glove compartment and pulled out the folded sheet of paper I wrote it the day Joseph told me what love is.

"Loving someone—really loving someone—is not about signing checks or standing next to them at the altar.

It's about putting them before you.

It's showing up when it's ugly.

It's seeing their needs, not just your own.

It's respecting them when they're in the room and when they're not.

It's making damn sure they're emotionally and physically safe, especially from you.

It's choosing them—over your pride, your distractions, your daddy issues, yourself—every day."

I turned the words into a list.

I'd read it a dozen times already, the words burned into my memory, but I read it again anyway—because maybe repetition could teach me what love was supposed to mean:

I didn't even realize I was tracing the words with my thumb until the edge of the paper softened from the pressure.

Eventually, I stopped reading it like a paragraph and started turning it into a list.

A checklist I should've been following from the very beginning.

1.

Put her before you.

2. Show up when it's ugly.

3. See her needs.

4. Respect her—here, there, everywhere.

5. Protect her from everything—including yourself.

6. Choose her. Every day. No exceptions.

It was all there, spelled out, embarrassingly simple, and yet somehow it had taken me this long to see it.

I sat in that parking space with the windows rolled up, holding that list like it was something sacred, like it was the only map I had left to find my way back home.

I turned around and went back to my apartment.

I'd moved in weeks ago, but it still didn't feel like home.

Everything was...

organized, at least.

The boxes were lined up neatly against the walls, labeled in my handwriting—kitchen, clothes, books, bathroom essentials.

A few were opened, their contents folded or stacked with care, but most were still sealed.

Like I knew where everything belonged, but I couldn't bring myself to finish the process. Couldn't make it real.

I kept the apartment clean—borderline sterile, honestly—but it still felt empty.

Like I was visiting someone else's life.

The absence of October was everywhere, sharp and constant, pressed into every surface I touched.

And the kids...I felt the hole they left every single night.

The hours I did get with them weren't enough, not by a long shot.

Which was the cruelest part because I'm seeing them more now than I ever did before.

I had barely stepped into the apartment, arms full of groceries, when a voice cut through the quiet behind me.

"God, this is so you,"

it called out, dry and amused.

"Boxes lined up like you're planning a military compaign."

I turned to see her leaning casually in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me with that familiar mix of affection and judgment only a sister could master.

Beth always had that look, like she loved me but fully expected me to be a disaster at any given moment.

She looked different now, though—not in some dramatic way, but in that subtle shift that happens when someone's been living everywhere and nowhere all at once.

Her jeans were worn, soft at the knees, the kind of faded that doesn't come from a store but from actual living.

She wore a loose button-up over a tank top, mismatched bracelets lining one wrist, a thin leather cord around her neck holding a tiny, chipped pendant I didn't recognize.

Her boots were scuffed, laces fraying, like they'd walked through more countries than I could pronounce.

And slung across her shoulder was some beaten-up canvas bag, patched and stitched in places—proof that she didn't stay anywhere long enough to need furniture, just books, notebooks, a few clothes, and memories.

Beth, the nomad.

The one who ran before the rest of us even realized we were stuck.

She'd always been restless, curious, allergic to permanence.

But somehow she still looks like home.

"It's annoying how much I have missed you,"

she said, voice soft.

Before I knew it, I crossed the room and pulled her into a hug.

Tight.

Solid.

Necessary.

Beth was the only woman I hugged besides October.

I didn't like touching people much—never had.

Too much noise in it, too much awkwardness, but with Beth it wasn't like that.

Same with Joseph.

Joseph didn't ask, just dragged me into bear hugs like I owed him rent.

I always acted annoyed, rolled my eyes, muttered something sharp, but the truth was—I loved it.

I loved it because it felt safe.

It felt like someone holding the edges of me steady when I didn't know how to keep from falling apart.

Beth hugged me back, fierce like always, pressing her face into my shoulder like she'd been carrying this moment across miles just to give it to me.

"You smell like the best parts of my childhood,"

she said, her voice almost breaking.

"It's good to see you."

I stepped aside and nodded toward the kitchen.

"Come in. I was about to heat something up. It's not terrible, I promise."

Beth raised an eyebrow but followed, kicking off her boots by the door.

"Is this one of those moments where you've been secretly hiding gourmet skills this whole time?"

"Not quite. Just YouTube recipes and stubbornness."

While the food reheated, the two of us leaned against opposite counters, that easy sibling silence filling the spaces between words.

"So,"

I finally said, glancing at her.

"why are you here? Thought you'd sworn off this whole side of the country."

Beth shrugged, tugging absently at one of her bracelets like she wasn't sure where to start.

"Mom's lawyer called me. Something about sorting out old accounts, tying up paperwork. Honestly, it wasn't clear."

She looked up at me, her voice gentler now.

"That was weeks ago, Thomas, and when I called Mom last week just to check in, she said she still hasn't heard from you. You won't tell me anything about where things stand with her, but she told me it's been silence since... well, everything. You've never gone this long without calling her. Not even once. But I get it"

I didn't say anything, and she didn't press. Just nodded like she expected the silence.

"So yeah,"

she continued, her expression somewhere between annoyed and concerned.

"I figured, knowing you're separated from October, and you're not exactly Mister Sociable on a good day, that maybe you could use your little sister showing up uninvited."

The microwave beeped. I dished the food onto two plates and handed one to her.

She took a cautious bite, then her eyes widened slightly.

"Wait, this is actually good. What the hell?"

I smirked, but it didn't quite reach my eyes.

"Been learning. Trying things I think October would like. I don't live there anymore, my fault, obviously, but I keep thinking about how her mom's not well. How October's tired, and I just—I like the idea of her eating something I made. Something good."

Beth didn't say anything for a moment, just sat across from me at the small kitchen table, her boots kicked off, one leg pulled up, then she looked at me fully. No jokes, no sarcasm. Just that sharp, steady gaze she saved for when she actually gave a damn.

"How are you?"

she asked.

"Like really. No polite lies. No 'I'm hanging in there.' Truth."

I stared down at my plate, pushing the food around with my fork, the words rising before I could swallow them back down. "Lost,"

I admitted, my voice sounding foreign even to myself.

"It's like... like I've been born again but nobody taught me how to stand. I don't know where to put my feet. Don't know how to balance. I'm relearning everything I should've already known by now—how to be a man, how to be a father, how to be someone worthy of the people who loved me before I knew how to love them back properly."

I paused, my chest tightening, throat dry.

"It's like I'm rebuilding from the floor up, brick by brick, and every brick I lay is one mistake too late. I keep thinking if I'd just done it sooner, if I'd paid attention sooner, none of this would've fallen apart. I built a life with October and the kids like someone throwing together furniture without reading the instructions. I thought love would hold it all up by itself, but love without effort is just... paper. I'm standing here with an armful of shredded paper and no idea how to put it back together."

I shook my head, swallowing the burn in my throat. "

it's exhausting. Every step feels like a reminder of what I should've done years ago. I don't even know if it's too late now, or if I'm just walking in circles, building a house she doesn't even want to come home to."

Beth nodded like she'd been expecting that. "Good,"

she said simply, leaning back like my emotional honesty was mildly satisfying.

"Accountability looks good on you."

I laughed softly, the kind of laugh that doesn't reach your eyes, just breaks apart in your throat.

"I don't even expect her to forgive me anymore. I don't wake up hoping for that. I wake up... bracing. Every morning I open my eyes and there's this second, this one second, where everything's quiet, like maybe I dreamed it all. Then it hits me again. The weight. The mess I made. I just—I wait for it. I'm convinced one of these days I'll open the door and find a courier standing there, holding an envelope with my whole life folded inside. Divorce papers. The end of it all."

Beth gave me a sharp look, crossing her arms.

"Yeah? Would that feel as bad as the envelope you left her?"

The words landed like a slap—sharp, hot, humiliating. I winced.

"She told you about that?"

Beth's eyes widened, incredulous.

"Of course she told me. What did you think, she'd just keep that kind of emotional grenade to herself? Jesus, Thomas."

She leaned forward now, elbows on her knees, like she was trying to get physically closer just to get her frustration across more efficiently.

"Who the hell leaves money for their wife on her birthday like she's a client? Or a pity case? Happy birthday, sorry I forgot your existence—here's a stack of bills to make up for my emotional bankruptcy? What were you thinking?"

I scrubbed a hand down my face, my palm dragging against the heat radiating off my neck and jaw. My chest was already tight, but now it felt like shame was sinking down my spine.

"It wasn't supposed to be like that,"

I muttered, barely able to meet her eyes.

"I missed her birthday. I knew I missed it. The gift I ordered wasn't going to arrive on time. I panicked. Dad suggested the envelope, he said it's practical, that she might appreciate the gesture."

Beth's face darkened at the mention of Dad, but I kept going.

"I wasn't trying to be cold. I just... I didn't know what to do. I felt like I had to give her something. Anything. I didn't want her to feel forgotten. But I guess I made it worse."

Beth exhaled slowly, then stood, pacing the room with the kind of energy she only used when she was trying not to throw something. Her voice dropped lower, not less angry, just more dangerous.

"You think money says what your mouth won't? You missed her birthday, Thomas and let's not even go to why that is, but that envelope proved what she feared. That you don't see her anymore. That she's just one more thing you outsource. One more thing on the to-do list you never get to."

Her voice caught slightly.

"She needed to know she still mattered to you. And all you gave her was proof she didn't."

"Of course she mattered. She's always been the only thing that truly did", voice raw, breaking apart.

"I know how it looks. I didn't mean it like that, Beth, I swear. I didn't know how to show up. Instead of fixing it, I made it worse. Everything I did made it worse."

"We come from a spectacularly fucked-up family,"

Beth said dryly.

"No one taught us what love was. They taught us guilt. Silent treatments. Passive-aggressive sighs. Slamming cabinet doors. Acting like everything's fine while emotionally setting the kitchen on fire. Love? Nah. We skipped that class entirely."

She leaned back.

"But I left. I travelled. I fell apart in hostels, learned how to apologize from strangers, cried in public restrooms I still remember the tiles of. I sat on the floors of kitchens I didn't belong in with people who told me you deserve better and for once, I listened."

I didn't interrupt. I could tell she was just getting started.

"I read a thousand ridiculous self-help books with pastel covers and affirmations that made me cringe. I said I am enough into a mirror while half-laughing, half-crying. I accidentally dated a yoga teacher who only communicated in breath work and obscure metaphors about rivers."

She paused.

"That was... an experience."

Despite myself, I huffed a laugh, just a little.

She softened then, but didn't let me off the hook.

"But the point is, I did the work. I learned what love should feel like, and more importantly, what it shouldn't. You didn't. You stayed here, doing... whatever it is you do. Avoiding. Justifying. Pretending the absence of conflict is the same thing as peace."

I looked down, shame prickling up the back of my neck.

Beth nudged my knee with hers.

"I'm not saying this to judge you, T, I'm saying—you're more than your mistakes. But only if you're willing to learn. Only if you stop expecting people—especially her—to translate your silence into love."

Then she smiled, soft but wicked.

"So here I am, dumping all my hard-earned emotional wisdom on your head like it's clearance sale day at the feelings store. You're welcome."

She nudged my knee gently.

"Listen to me, you are so much more than your mistakes. You're not just the bad decisions or the screwups. You're also the good things you forgot how to see. And if I have to stand here like some discount guru and remind you every five minutes—I will."

She grinned.

"I'm annoying and emotionally evolved. It's my whole personality now."

I sat there in the quiet, the weight of it all pressing into my chest—but for the first time in a long time, the weight felt like something I could carry.

The phone rang, and when I saw October's name on the screen, my stomach dropped.

She never calls. Not unless something's wrong with the kids. Not unless it's urgent.

I answered immediately, thumb hovering to put her on speaker.

"Hey—hello? Are the kids okay? Are you okay?"

October's voice came through, calm but a little tired.

"Yes, yes. Don't worry, we're fine."

I exhaled, hand pressing to my chest like I could slow my own heartbeat.

"Okay. Great. That's... good."

Beth was already watching me from the couch, her expression alert and amused.

Without missing a beat, October's voice cut through the speaker.

"Do you want to try couples therapy?"

I froze.

Beth's eyes went wide, and then she looked at me with a slow, smug smile. She started clapping silently, fists tucked under her chin like she was trying not to squeal.

I blinked.

"Oh. Uh—yeah. Yes. Sure."

October's voice stayed steady.

"It doesn't mean we're getting back together. I just think... we need help. For co-parenting. For communicating. For not screwing this up worse than we already have."

"Yeah,"

I said quickly.

"I understand. I'll look into it, set something up."

"Okay. Good night, Thomas."

"Good night."

The line went dead.

For a moment, I just stood there, holding the phone like it might ring again and she may take it all back. But then I turned around and hugged Beth for the second time that night. This one lingered.