by Kyra Lennon
He was right, of course. I didn’t need or want alcohol. I should have thrown on my PJs and gone right to bed, but hey, doing that every single night hadn’t made me feel any better so far. What if changing my routine held the key to snapping me out of my funk?
Hell of a night. Hell of a day. Hell of a week.
Miguel followed me into the living room and we both sat down in the best corner, the one with all the bean bags and pillows. I took a drink of my beer then offered the bottle to Miguel. He hesitated for a second before taking it and raising it to his lips. After a few swallows he handed it back to me, and with a sigh I placed it on the small table beside me. I didn’t really want it. Didn’t want anything except a few hours of peace.
“What’s going on, Freya? Is this why you’re not sleeping? Because you’ve been spending a lot of time at the cemetery?”
I turned to my head to look at him, ready to bitch him out for his insensitivity, because who the hell was he or anyone else to judge me on the limited amount of things I could do to ease the pain? But I noticed how his eyes had dimmed, all sign of light and life drained away. Miguel was as tired as me.
“That’s not why. I don’t usually go there at night; I’m not insane.”
I reached for the beer bottle again and took another drink, hoping it would take the edge off the awkwardness of the conversation; of having the conversation with someone who intensified my sadness.
“I know you’re not insane. I’m worried about you. I want to help.”
“You can’t help, Miguel. Not unless you can fast forward my life to a point when this stops hurting.” I let out a hollow chuckle. “I don’t think that place exists though. And worrying? What good does it do? It just means one more person is unhappy. You don’t need to worry about me. I’ll be okay.”
“I know you will be. But until then, I’ll worry.”
He meant well, which only made me feel worse for trying to withdraw from him. Being around Miguel again was another thing I needed to tackle; just like being at work, doing my job, trying to fit back into the team, and getting through every day without curling up into a ball until the pain stopped. Each thing on the list seemed impossible to overcome, a string of never ending struggles.
I handed the beer bottle back to Miguel. “I should go to bed. You wanna crash in the spare room?”
His eyes widened a little, but he nodded. “Sure. Thanks.”
With a small smile, I stood up. “Goodnight.”
“Night, Freya.”
I walked through the cemetery, my eyes flicking left and right as I searched for him. Where did he go? I saw him only a moment ago, caught a glimpse of him before he vanished and left me calling out his name. As fog descended around me, casting a sinister light around the gravestones and making it hard to see, I called out again.
“Will!”
No answer. The fog grew thicker, and my heart raced. He was here. He was here.
I took off running, tears falling down my cheeks. I couldn’t let him slip away from me again. I had to get him back, but the darkness, the mist, it thickened until I could no longer see.
“Freya!”
It wasn’t Will’s voice shouting in my dreams that woke me, it was Miguel’s. I blinked hard a few times, forcing myself to return to the real world as Miguel said my name again, more softly this time.
I rolled onto my back, swiping strands of sticky, sweaty hair from my face, and pushed the comforter away from me. Cool air hit me immediately, providing instant relief and I drew in a deep breath.
“Are you okay?”
I nodded without looking in Miguel’s direction. I wasn’t ready yet; my mind was still in the graveyard. Still searching. I rubbed my eyes, and after a couple of minutes, my surroundings became clear again.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“It’s fine. You scared me, but it’s okay. What happened?”
“Dreams.”
Even when I slept, in my dreams the pain followed me, making me toss and turn as I saw Will, all the while knowing it wasn’t real; that when I opened my eyes he’d be gone again and some days I wished more than anything that I wouldn’t wake up so I could hold on to him forever.
I didn’t want to die. I just… I was tired of living half a life.
My breathing steadied and I shuffled up the bed into a sitting position.
“You wanna talk about it?”
I shook my head. “What’s the point? Doesn’t change anything.”
“How do you know? Have you tried?”
“I talked to Leah about it. All that happens is I think about it more and the dreams keep coming.”
“Are they about Will?”
The prickling of hot tears behind my eyeballs sent my heart rate soaring again. Why wouldn’t the tears stop? Why were they always on the surface, ready to rain down my cheeks at a moment’s notice? I clenched my fists, trying to push the emotion back down.
“Freya?”
“Yes!” I snapped. “They’re about Will! They’re always about Will!”
I hated how harsh my voice sounded, and how quick I was to snap. I hated it, but I didn’t stop it.
With a curt nod, Miguel stood and left the room. I let out a snarl of frustration, throwing one of my pillows across the room where it hit my dresser and knocked my favourite framed photo of Will and me onto the floor with a light thud. My feet kicked, untangling themselves from the sheets and I crawled across the bed, pressing my stomach against the mattress as I reached over the end to pick the photo up. As I put the frame back in its rightful place, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The light from the hallway cast an eerie glow on the room and I looked… haunted. Those awful dark shadows under my eyes, and my skin so pale it was almost transparent. God, what was it going to take to find my way back to being me?
Still looking in the mirror, I saw Miguel re-enter the room carrying a glass of water. Without a word, he placed the glass on the dresser then sat on the edge of my bed.
“Thank you.” My words came out as a whisper.
I shuffled forwards to take a few sips of the drink. The liquid trickled down my throat and I felt my body awakening a little more as the water re-hydrated my system.
“What can I do, Freya?” Miguel asked, his voice almost as quiet as mine. “How can I help you?”
That was the thing. The thing nobody could grasp. Help is what you give somebody when there’s an actual problem with a real solution. Grief isn’t that way. Grief isn’t a problem – at least not in the usual sense of the word – and a solution doesn’t exist. If there was one single way for my friends to help me, didn’t he think I’d have asked by now? Did he think I wanted to stay in this place where nothing ever changed and my heart remained shattered? Because honestly, if there was some magic glue to piece it back together, I’d have taken it in a second.
“There’s nothing, Miguel. I told you. Nothing.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
I shrugged. “Up to you.”
His weight shifted from the bed and I placed my empty glass back on the dresser. As I turned onto my side, Miguel kicked my bedroom door, making it slam shut.
“Fuck you, Freya! I’m sick of this!”
I scrambled to my knees, my pulse racing yet again. What the hell? Who was this guy in my room? This was not the Miguel I knew. I didn’t think I’d ever heard him swear or lose his temper before; it wasn’t in his nature. My palms started to sweat, just like they had on my first day back at work, and for a second, everything in my vision spun.
“Why won’t you talk to me? Why can’t you look at me? I’m trying so damn hard to reach you but you keep pushing me away!” He shook his head, turning away from me then quickly turning back as if he wanted to stay more.
No words came but his shoulders heaved as he stared at me.
The room came back into focus, and for the first time, I wished for the clarity to disappear so I could pretend this was another dream. A horrible, horrible d
ream.
“Answer me, dammit! What did I do that was so wrong that you don’t want me around? I needed you, Freya! I’ve needed you since Will died but you look at me as if you wish I’m the one who’s dead!”
My jaw dropped and I choked on a gasp. The tears I’d tried to contain overflowed, dampening my cheeks then dripping onto my nightshirt. He couldn’t have shocked me more if he’d slapped me.
“I didn’t… I never meant to…”
“What? You never meant to push me away? Don’t. Don’t lie to me. You think this is easy for me? For any of us? You think I don’t miss him every damn day? Just because I try to keep on top of it, try not to let it get the best of me, it doesn’t mean I don’t care anymore, Freya. It means I’m doing what I have to do.”
He turned away again, his hand lifting to rub at his forehead.
It wasn’t fair. His words weren’t fair. I never did that. Never looked at him that way, and certainly never thought it. How could he not understand?
“It hurts to be around you,” I whispered. “It hurts.”
He nodded without turning around. “Yeah. It hurts. You know what else hurts? Not being around the only person who misses Will as much as I do.”
My tears fell faster, my stomach aching at the realisation of what I’d done. I’d tried to protect myself. Tried to block out any extra pain I might feel, and the only thing I knew was that being near Miguel amplified the agony. But for him? Being around me made things easier, and I’d had no idea.
Because I’d never asked.
“Miguel.”
When he turned, his eyes fully met mine for what seemed like the first time in years. I may as well have been looking in a mirror because my own grief was reflected right back to me in his brown eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
His jaw clenched in a way I was too familiar with, but there was really no need for him to try and squash his feelings. My tears rained a steady stream down my face and I lifted the corners of my lips slightly, letting him know it was okay.
Miguel’s head lowered and a heart-breaking sob erupted from him. His shoulders slumped and I leapt up, rushing towards him and holding him tightly as he crashed into me. His fingers dug into my back as he let out all he’d held in. One of my arms circled around his waist, the other reached up and firmly held the back of his head, my thumb stroking soothing circles on his neck while my tears seeped into his shirt.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Miguel didn’t answer. His only response was to hold me tighter in the semi-darkness of my room until we’d cried ourselves out.
“Come with me,” I said, taking Miguel’s hand and leading him into the living room, back to the pillows we’d sat on earlier. He was shivering but the tension had gone from his body, and although his cheeks were streaked with dried tears, I at least knew he was done yelling. I grabbed the blanket from the back of the sofa and put it over him then went to the kitchen and made us some of Leah’s British tea, loaded with sugar, because that’s how it tastes best.
After handing one of the cups to Miguel, I lifted one half of the blanket and settled underneath it beside him. He yawned, letting me know he’d exhausted himself as much as I had, and I reached for his hand again. His fingers curled around mine.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I shouldn’t have said those things.”
“I deserved it. Every word. I’ve been so self-involved, I-”
“You lost more than I did.” He turned his head to look at me. “Your best friend. The man you loved.”
“You loved him too. He was your best friend too.”
He gave a small smile. “It’s still different. I shouldn’t have put all that on you.”
“You couldn’t have kept it inside any longer. God, you… you must have hated me.”
“No. No. I didn’t hate you. I just hated being pushed away. I hated feeling like I couldn’t talk to you and hated that you seemed to be able to talk to everyone but me. And I hate that I didn’t understand why.”
How could he possibly have understood? There were so many things since Will died that didn’t make sense anymore; things I would have understood before. Maybe it was the same for Miguel. Both of us wrapped up in our pain, unable to see anything clearly.
“You seemed to be doing so well,” I said. “Every time I’ve seen you, you’ve been okay.”
“I am okay. Most of the time. I go to work, I keep busy. That’s how I get through it. The first few weeks I almost ran myself into the ground trying to do overtime, trying to get the guys to do extra training, and if that didn’t work, I was helping everyone I knew with anything they needed just so I didn’t have to think. Luckily, we have awesome friends, and Bryce and Jude staged an intervention to slow me down. They checked on me the way I wanted to check on you.” Miguel set his drink down. “Out of everyone who was closest to Will, you and I knew him the longest. I just wanted to be around you. To remember him with you.”
Miguel and I had many things in common but grieving methods was not one of them. While I understood him, I couldn’t do things his way, not right at the start. Not because I didn’t want to think about Will; that was all I did. But because talking about him, thinking back over our best memories was like being kicked in the guts because Will wasn’t there to remember the good times with us. Each memory was another stab to my soul. Another reminder that we wouldn’t be able to make new memories together.
Speaking of…
Was I finally ready?
I put my own drink down and stood up again then walked over to the coffee table. After Will died, my friends had put together a photo album for me. It was filled with snapshots from times gone by. When they gave it to me, I didn’t manage to turn more than two pages before my tears blurred my vision and I closed it up. It was too damn hard to look at. I was so, so grateful for the gesture, but I hadn’t been able to open the cover and look through the pages since the day I took it home. I put it on the small shelf under the coffee table and left it.
I pulled the album out and smiled fondly at the front cover, which Leah had decorated with blue sparkly hearts.
“Is that…?” Miguel began, raising an eyebrow. Of course he recognised it. No doubt some of his own photos had gone into the album. Part of me wished I’d been there the day everyone sat around choosing the photos. However, a bigger part of me knew I wouldn’t have been able to handle it. I wasn’t sure I could handle it now, but I owed Miguel something after shutting him out for so long, and maybe he was the best person to share this with.
I sat beside him again, laying the blanket back over me before placing the album on my lap. I didn’t need to say anything. Miguel reached for my hand as I took a deep breath and opened the front cover.
Since I’d seen it before, I was already chuckling at what the first page held. It was a photo of an eight-year-old Will dressed as a cowboy, complete with a very classy Stetson. He poked his tongue out at the camera, and his cheeky side shone through.
“We all loved this photo,” Miguel said, smiling. “Will’s mom gave Leah a few to choose from, and she’d already decided before she showed us the selection. It was the only one she made a copy of.”
“It’s a great choice. I always loved this one too. Will’s mom has an enlarged version hanging on the wall in her living room. Will was totally embarrassed by it. He thought she should have taken it down by now, but she always said it’s one of her favourite memories of her little boy.”
“You know if the guys had known about this he’d never have heard the end of it?”
“Yes.” I laughed. “He made me swear nobody would ever find out about it. This was way back, before we started dating. He had to buy me a lot of dinners to ensure my silence!”
That wasn’t the half of it. I’d laughed so hard the first time I saw the photo I’d given myself a stomach ache. Will and I hadn’t been friends for long; I can’t remember why we were even at his parents’ place, but seeing him acting
so silly had triggered my funny bone because I’d never seen that side of him as an adult. I’d only ever seen the serious “coach” side of him; I’d had no idea how much more there was to him. I’d never have told the team about the photo, but Will was so worried he’d bought me lunch at work for about three weeks.
“He lightened up a lot over the years,” Miguel said, as if he’d heard my thoughts. “I think that was partly because of you.”
“And partly because of you.” I looked up at Miguel and smiled. “You’re the most laid back person in the history of the world; that must have had an effect.”
“I guess. I remember when I first met him, I thought he was going to explode every time I told him to relax. He was pretty tightly wound.”
My stomach twinged a little when I chuckled again, pulling me back to that place inside me that refused to let go. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths the way I always did when these moments took over me.
“Are you okay?”
With a low growl, I gently pushed the photo album off my lap. “I’m okay. And I’m not.”
“What happened?”
Miguel’s question was gentle, almost as though he was afraid to ask for fear I’d disappear inside myself again and he’d lose me like he did before.
I opened my eyes and turned my head towards him, ready to tell him what I hadn’t fully explained to anyone. “I’m sort of… hollow. Right after Will died, I was glad for it. When I was numb, I didn’t feel pain. Now, even though the numbness has gone, it’s like my insides are empty. Nothing makes me happy, nothing makes me excited, nothing makes me feel anything good. Aside from pain, the only thing I’ve really felt is fear when I went back to work. Like just now, I could laugh about Will’s photo, but I don’t feel it. Not really.”
Miguel’s head tilted to one side. “Freya, have you seen a doctor about this?” He quickly held up his hands before I could speak. “I don’t mean that to sound patronising. I just mean, what if you’re suffering from depression? Something more than just normal grieving?”
“The doctor doesn’t think that’s the problem. He’s more concerned about the sleep deprivation, and I’m trying to fix that, preferably without medication. He told me to see him if I feel any worse, but I don’t. I feel the same, and I’m tired of it.”
