by A. S. Teague
Fuck space!
I need her.
Ignoring her pleas to calm down, I snatch my keys off the counter and stalk to the front door. Yanking the door open, I glare at her over my shoulder. “You want space? Fine. Have it.”
Paralyzed, I stare at the door Breccan just walked out of. Five minutes pass agonizingly slowly and when he doesn’t return, I trudge to the bedroom to begin packing my belongings.
When I woke up this morning, I felt better than I had in weeks. It was the first night since his death that I hadn’t dreamt of that terrible day we lost Connor. The first morning I woke up and didn’t have to fight for a breath. The first time in a month I wanted to feel Breccan’s hands on me.
Pulling my clothes out of the drawers Breccan stuck them in, I notice Connor’s bucket list notebook under a stack of shirts.
I haven’t had the courage to open it since his death, afraid of what seeing his handwriting would do to me. Taking a deep breath, I flip it open.
The first page was the list in his messy scrawl. I can’t help smiling when I remember each of the things he was able to check off. Despite the things we did, my heart wrenches at seeing how much of it was unfinished.
Most of the pages are filled with drawings of superheroes. About halfway through the notebook, I notice a page filled with writing. Stopping on the page, I suck in a breath before sinking to my knees.
Dear Aunt Sid,
I know I’m getting sicker and I’m probably not going to get another kidney. Even though you always promised me I would. So I wanted to write you a letter, you know, just in case.
Meeting Breccan Carlisle was the coolest thing ever. How many people get to say that they met their idol? My friends are so jealous, and they should be! But that would have never happened if it weren’t for you. So thanks.
Skydiving was so fuck freaking awesome. How many kids get to say they’ve jumped out of a plane? And your face! Haha. But that would have never happened without you. You had to pull so many strings to get them to let me do it. So thanks.
Becoming an Atlanta Falcon for a day and playing catch with THE Dusty Wellington was one of the best days of my life. I always said that I was going to play for the Falcons one day, and I actually did. Breccan may have been the one to set it up, but without you, it couldn’t have happened. So thanks.
I really hope that there is never a real zombie apocalypse. You’ll be one of the first to get eaten. Sorry, but it’s true. If we could kill zombies with lists, though, you will definitely live forever, but since you gotta shoot them in the head, you’re a goner. Your shooting skills seriously suck. I know how much you hate guns, so thanks for that too.
And I will never, ever, ever forget meeting Haley Nicole. The hottest woman alive spent half a day with me. My friends were jealous before, but after that? They didn’t speak to me for, like, two days. I’m not gonna lie—it was worth it. So double thanks.
All of those things were great. But none of it means as much as the weekends we spent sitting on the couch, watching movies together. I’d rather bake cookies with you than have another fake zombie apocalypse. I never missed Mom when she was gone with work because I had you. And I knew that, on the nights that she wasn’t going to be home, you were.
I never felt sad that I didn’t have a dad because I had you. You totally sucked at throwing a ball, but you still did it with me every day. I know how much you hated hearing about comic books, but you still listened to me go on and on for, like, a hundred years.
Even though it was really annoying when you pulled out your list of things we had to do for the weekend, EVERY WEEKEND, I didn’t mind because I knew that the end of that list always had something fun for just the two of us.
Aunt Siddy, Breccan is the coolest dude ever. I know I told you that he was my hero, but that was before I looked up the definition of hero. It’s a person who is admired or idealized for courage, outstanding achievements, or noble qualities. That is you. You are my hero, Aunt Sid. Not Breccan, not Dusty Wellington, not even Mom (don’t tell her I said that).
Anyway, I said all this because I want to tell you that, if I die, I don’t want you to be sad. Because I love you. And I know that you love me. And growing up with you as my aunt has been the coolest of all.
So thanks,
Connor
PS - I really hope you marry Breccan. He makes you happy. Plus, it’d be really cool having him as my uncle.
I read the letter again, careful not to let my tears smear the ink. I didn’t know that it was possible to cry as much as I have since Connor’s passing, but with each line I read, the tears fall harder. I’m reading it for a third time when Breccan’s voice interrupts me.
“What are you doing?” he asks gruffly.
Popping my head up, I drop the notebook and then frantically scrub at my face. His eyebrows are in his hairline, and looking around, I see why. My clothes are shoved in a suitcase and drawers are hanging open. Checking the clock on his nightstand, I see that he’s only been gone fifteen minutes.
“Ah, I was packing my stuff.” My voice is thick with emotion.
Breccan cocks his head to the side and lifts his shoulders. “Packing your stuff? Why?” He strides over to my suitcase and begins removing my underwear.
“Hey! What are you doing?” I scramble to my feet. Then I grab the lacy panties in his hand and tug, but he doesn’t let go.
“I’m putting your clothes back where they belong,” he tells me, tugging hard enough that I lose my grip. He takes the two steps to the dresser before shoving them back in and repeating the process until all of my clothes are shoved into drawers. After slamming the last one shut, he turns to me. “There,” he says proudly.
“Why did you do that? I told you I needed space! I’m going to go stay in a hotel tonight.” I stride over to the dresser and yank the drawers open, groaning. Not only do I now have to repack all of my clothes, but they’re wrinkled all to shit.
“Ha!” He lets out a chuff of laughter.
“What’s so funny?” I bite out.
“You think you’re staying in a hotel. That’s what’s funny.” He lifts his hand, palm up, while shrugging and popping an eyebrow at me.
He’s still chuckling as he shoves the drawer I was just digging in shut, almost catching my fingers at the same time.
“Well, I am. Remember. Space?” I remind him, waving at the six inches between us.
Breccan’s not dumb, but I’m beginning to wonder if maybe he has short-term memory loss.
“Yeah, you said you needed space. I gave you space.” He takes a step forward, his chest bumping mine.
Rolling my eyes, I take two steps back and huff, “Breccan, you were gone for all of fifteen minutes. That’s not exactly what I meant.” Crossing my arms over my chest, I cock a hip to the side.
I take another step backward and trip over the notebook on the floor.
“Shit!” I shout, reaching out to catch myself at the same time that Breccan lunges for me.
He loses his balance and we both tumble to the floor.
Laughing, he says, “Damn. I think your clumsiness is wearing off on me.”
I remember the notebook and snatch it off the floor, silently praying that I didn’t mess it up. Panic causes my heart to race at the thought of having destroyed the only thing I have left of Connor. I flip through the pages and see that they’re all still there and not torn. Breathing a sigh of relief, I fall back to the plush carpet and lie next to Breccan, clutching the notebook to my chest.
He rolls to his side and props himself up on an elbow. “Is that his bucket list notebook?” His eyes are soft as he runs his fingers through my hair.
Pressing my lips together, I nod briskly. I’m afraid that, if I open my mouth to speak, I’ll cry again, so I nod until he takes my chin in his thumb and his forefinger.
He leans in and whispers, “You don’t need space, Sidney.”
His lips on mine are soft and gentle. There is no urgency in his kiss. I grab a ha
ndful of his hair and anchor his mouth to mine, kissing him deeply. There are so many things I need to tell him, and I do, only no words are actually spoken.
When I’ve conveyed everything I need to, I break our seal. Afraid to open my eyes, I breathe in through my nose several times. When I finally find the courage, my lids flutter open and Breccan is smiling the most brilliant smile I’ve ever seen.
“There she is,” he murmurs quietly as he rains kisses on my cheeks.
Whispering, I admit, “God, you were right.”
“Right about what, Sid?” he challenges, forcing me to say the words.
“I can’t control everything. I’ve been wasting my life, trying to keep it in this neat, orderly box. How sad is it that it took my twelve-year-old nephew’s death to realize I haven’t been living?”
He doesn’t say a word, just nods his encouragement.
“I don’t need space. I just need you,” I finish.
His face flashes triumph, and he hooks an arm around my waist and slides me across the floor to him.
“What’re you doing?” I ask, a smile in my voice.
Huskily, he replies, “I’m giving you what you need.” His hand slides down my belly.
Burying my face in his shoulder, I laugh for the first time in what feels like ages and then kiss a trail up his neck.
After rolling me on my back, he licks his way down my body as I cry out, “Yes, Breccan! God, yes.”
It is dinnertime when Breccan saunters out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist and his hair still dripping from the shower we took together.
Even though I just had him, my body heats at the sight of his abs glistening with moisture.
Blushing, I turn away and finish pulling my favorite T-shirt on.
“No, no, no. Don’t put that on,” he rushes out, snatching the shirt from my hands.
Naked from the waist up, I cock an eyebrow. “Give that back!” I lunge for the shirt, but he holds it over his head, making it impossible for me to reach.
Tossing it behind him, he says, “Close your eyes.”
A faint smile plays at my lips before I obey his command. I’m surprised when his lips softly brush mine.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers.
Sighing, I lean into him and wrap my arms around his waist. He kisses me once more before taking one hand in his. I’m giggling when he places it inside something.
Feeling around, I realize that it’s scraps of paper inside a hat.
“Okay, keep your eyes closed but pull out one piece of paper,” he instructs.
I giggle then swish my hand around a few times before letting my fingers settle on one. Grasping it tight, I pull my hand out and blindly stick it in his direction.
“Can I open now?” I ask hesitantly.
“Yes,” he says.
When I pop my eyes, he’s holding the slip of paper and grinning widely. He unfolds it and turns it toward me so that I can read the single word that’s written inside.
Vegas.
Gasping, I bring my fist to my mouth and bite my forefinger. My heart constricts. “Is this…” I trail off, unable to form the words.
No way. This can’t be…
But this is Breccan, so it absolutely can.
My eyes fill with more impossible tears.
He nods, a smug smile on his face. “Pack a bag. Looks like we’re going to Vegas. We’ve got a bucket list to finish.”
Three years later…
“Hurry up! We’re going to be late!” I shout down the hall. Hopping around on one foot, I try to put my shoe on for the third time without success. “Please come help me get this damn shoe on my foot!”
Unintelligible grumbling comes from the bathroom.
“I heard that, Breccan Carlisle!” I lie.
“Do you have the tickets?” he asks, striding down the hall toward me.
I stop my pointless fight with my shoe and drink him in. True to his word, he never stepped foot in the octagon to compete again, opting instead to open a gym with Tripp and become a Jiu-Jitsu instructor. Together, they train and promote the top fighters in the league. It took less than six months to recruit the best in every weight class, and the satisfaction he gets is a high that fighting didn’t give.
Even though he doesn’t have to follow the strict training schedule and diet, he has stayed in incredible shape, and I never missed an opportunity to admire his hard work.
“I fucking love it when you look at me like that.” He smirks.
Grinning, I slap his bicep and order, “Just help my put my freaking shoe on.”
As he bends over to oblige my request, he stops at my rounded belly and kisses it. Then he whispers, “Hey, baby girl. How ya doing in there?”
My heart swells, and tears threaten to fall—just like they always do when he talks to our unborn daughter.
“Damn hormones,” I grumble, sticking my cabbage-patch foot in his direction. “I don’t care if you have to tape the damn thing on there. I’m wearing these shoes.”
After he performs a magic trick and gets the flat on my swollen foot, I turn in search of my purse. Spying it on the kitchen counter, I waddle to get it, passing the refrigerator covered in pictures.
A shot of Connor with Breccan’s arm around his shoulders catches my attention, and I pause to study it. It was taken just a month before his death. Connor’s eyes are sparkling and his mouth is open wide in laughter.
I wasn’t able to stand looking at pictures of Connor, but the day we closed on our house six months after his death, I walked into the kitchen to find that picture front and center on our fridge. Breccan said that the house wasn’t truly a home without Connor in it.
Abby flew in the next day to help us move in, and by the time she’d left, the fridge was covered in memories.
“Baby, the tickets?” Breccan asks, shaking me out of my trip down memory lane.
I reach inside my purse and find the six tickets safely tucked inside. “Got ’em,” I tell him.
After grabbing my sweater off the back of the chair, he hands it to me.
I shake my head.
He growls, “Just put it on, Sid.”
Rolling my eyes, I snatch it from his hands. “Breccan, it’s October in Georgia. It’s eighty degrees today. Not to mention I’m a walking heating blanket right now.” I gesture at my belly.
“Well, Olivia might get cold,” he argues.
I decide not to fight the issue and slip my arms into the soft fabric.
When we found out we were having a girl, Breccan insisted we name her Connor. While my heart melted at the idea, I knew there was no way in hell I was naming my daughter a boy’s name. We argued for weeks, finally compromising and deciding that her middle name would honor the boy we lost.
The doorbell rings, and I turn, not bothering to walk to the door. A few moments later, Rebecca waltzes in, followed closely by Tripp. She’s carrying a bottle of wine in one hand and sparkling grape juice in the other.
Smiling, she holds them both up. “A little pregame toast!” she shouts before rushing over and throwing her arms around my shoulders, nearly knocking me out with the bottles. “I’ve missed you!” she squeals. “Look how big you are!”
“Oh, hell,” Breccan mutters behind me.
Her eyes widen, and she mouths, “Sorry,” before hurrying toward the kitchen in search of cups.
I let her comment slide. She’s right; I’m a beached whale.
Tripp nods at me and follows her in. Then he digs through the fridge for a beer before coming up empty-handed, “Dude, where are your beers? Is this coconut water? What the fuck?” he mumbles.
Breccan rolls his eyes and jerks a thumb in my direction. “Ask my wife.”
Laughing, I tell him, “If I can’t drink, he can’t drink. Come back in two months. I’m sure the fridge will be stocked.”
Breccan and I got married a year ago in a small ceremony on the beach in Costa Rica. It was intimate, with only the Tolers, my brother, an
d my sister in attendance. Breccan’s parents had been invited, but it was no surprise when they declined our invitation. I worried that Breccan would be bitter, but he shrugged it off and never mentioned it again. His father still calls occasionally to try to convince Breccan to join him in the family business, but the answer is always the same: Fuck. No.
My wedding was everything I had always dreamed it would be—set on the beach with the jungle behind us. It was gorgeous and perfect, and I felt Connor’s presence beside me as I said, “I do.”
The doorbell rings again, and I motion for Breccan to answer it. He pulls it open, and my sister walks in, followed closely by Pierre.
Shocking the shit out of everyone, Abby did the one thing no one ever expected of her.
She quit her job and got married to a French artist she’d met while on assignment.
After rushing over to me, she pulls me into a warm embrace and whispers, “Look at you. You’re glowing.”
I look deep into her eyes, expecting to see sadness. Instead, they sparkle with happiness.
“So are you,” I whisper, squeezing her hand.
It has been six months since I saw her last. Despite having settled down, she doesn’t come home often, saying that the memories were too painful.
I wave to Pierre, who is already busy chatting with Breccan.
Gazing around the room at the people gathered, I smile. Connor would have loved this. I know that, wherever he is watching us from, he is positively giddy.
Clapping his hands together, Breccan shouts, “Are we ready?”
A round of cheers goes up, and he strides over to me, asking, “You got the notebook?”
Nodding, I pat my purse. “Right here.”
We arrive at Turner Field half an hour later and settle into our seats in the skybox just in time to see the first pitch being thrown out.
“All right, ladies and gentlemen. Here we go.” The announcer’s voice rumbles over the loudspeaker. “We’re tied at three-three going in to game seven of the World Series. It all comes down to this.”
