13 Christian
Three years later.
I sit at the kitchen table, Gram’s cup of tea cooling beside me. She’s quiet today- quieter than usual. Her breathing rattles, shallow and uneven, and her hands tremble slightly as she lifts the cup. I reach out automatically, steadying it before it spills.
“Slow down,” I murmur.
She gives me a faint smile, the kind that hurts to look at.
Gram has been declining for months now. The hospice nurse says there’s nothing more we can do except keep her comfortable, which feels like a stupid thing to say considering that’s been the goal for years.
I’ve been taking care of her every day for years now.
I know every pill bottle, every routine.
I know when she’s having a bad day or a slightly-less-bad day.
I know when she’s scared or sad or tired.
I know which cardigan she reaches for when she’s cold and how she likes toast cut- even though she barely eats anymore.
Taking care of her is just… what I do.
It keeps my hands busy. Keeps my mind occupied. Gives me something concrete to focus on.
Because when I don't have something to do, my thoughts have a bad habit of wandering places I don't want them to go.
Back to Francesca.
About how we lost her…
And then about how, not long after, I lost Ryan and Jamie too.
It wasn’t right away, and not all at once. No- at first, we moved through the days like we were still a unit- one focused on fixing this. On finding her. On getting her back.
But the longer she was gone, the more we fell apart.
Ryan was the first to go.
One day he just… wasn’t there anymore. He transferred schools. Moved out of his parents’ place. Stopped answering texts. Stopped coming by.
It surprised me how much it hurt.
Jamie was different.
He didn’t leave- he just disappeared in a different way. Stopped visiting Gram. Stopped spending any time at the house with me. Spent more and more time out doing God knows what with God knows who.
Then, one night, I heard him through his bedroom door. Crying.
I didn’t knock. I just went in.
He was sitting on the edge of his bed, dark hair falling into his face, green eyes glassy, pupils blown wide. The room smelled wrong- chemical and sour, layered over sweat.
He was high. Not a little. A lot. Out of his mind.
My stomach dropped.
“Jamie,” I said, crossing the room in a few quick strides. I sat beside him and pulled him into me without thinking, but he fought me immediately.
“You- you don’t get it,” he slurred, shoving at my chest. “You never fucking get it!”
I tightened my grip instead of letting go. “Jamie, just breathe. I get it. I do. I loved her too.”
That set him off.
“Loved?” he laughed, sharp and angry, pushing hard enough to make me let go. “I still love her. I love her and she’s not here.” His voice cracked, then turned vicious. “And I love you and you’re here, but you might as well be gone.”
My chest tightened.
“Jamie,” I said more carefully this time, because something about him felt off in a way that had nothing to do with the drugs. “I’m here, man. I- I love you too- ”
He shoved me again, harder. “No. Not really.” His hand clawed at his chest like he was trying to tear something out. “There’s nothing left. She left me. You don’t want me.”
The agony in his voice was unbearable.
“Jamie, stop,” I said, voice tighter now. “What are you even saying? I want you here. Just- stop- ”
He did.
Not because he calmed down, but because he leaned forward and kissed me.
It caught me off guard- fast enough that my brain stuttered behind. But what shocked me more was the split second before I reacted.
The part where I froze- not because I was disgusted or angry. But because for one impossible, disorienting moment, it felt familiar.
Like something I'd been standing next to for years without ever looking directly at it.
Then the moment passed and realization hit me hard enough that I pulled away, putting space between us.
“Jamie,” I started, my pulse hammering. “What-”
He was still leaning toward me, eyes unfocused, like he hadn’t caught up to it either. Then he scrambled backward across the bed, eyes suddenly sharp with panic and fury, like he’d realized what he’d done and hated it.
“Don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Jamie- ” I said again, still trying to catch up, still not fully back in my own body.
“No.” He got to his feet, unsteady. “Fuck this. Fuck you!”
I stood slowly, hands raised, careful now, feeling like one wrong move would trigger something dangerous.
“Hey- ”
He shook his head and stepped into me, shoving me hard enough that my back hit the wall.
Before I could react, he grabbed my shirt and dragged me forward only to slam me back again.
“No. No. No.” He was half yelling, half crying, and I just stood there letting it happen.
I was bigger than him, stronger than him. I could have stopped it.
But I didn't.
Then he punched the wall beside my head. His fist tore straight through the drywall, dust exploding into the air.
That was what finally snapped me out of it.
“Jamie! Stop!”
He froze.
For half a second neither of us moved.
Then he looked down at his hand where blood dripped from his knuckles.
His gaze lifted to mine. He shook his head once, then turned. A second later, he was gone.
After that, he changed.
He started bringing girls home. Loud ones. Obvious ones. Sometimes more than one. Sometimes different girls in the same week. He didn’t hide it.
I told myself it was just him being Jamie. Coping. Distracting himself.
But I knew better.
It was a performance- a wall being built brick by brick.
And the worst part was that I let him build it, because I never knew what to do with that night.
I told myself he was high. Told myself he was grieving. Told myself he didn't mean any of it.
All of which might have been true.
But none of those explanations ever fully accounted for the feeling that settled in my chest. The feeling that I’d lost something I hadn’t even realized I had. Something I never quite understood and didn’t take care of.
So yeah, he lives with me.
But even when he’s here… he isn’t.
I’m alone.
Well, not completely. I still have Gram. Taking care of her gives my days shape, something to hold onto.
I manage her medications, her meals, her appointments. I sit with her, talk to her, get her into bed everyday, pretending I don’t notice how quickly she was fading.
But when she’s gone… I’ll truly be alone.
My phone sits on the table beside me. I pick it up and open the account info like I do every day- like I have every day since Francesca left.
Her line is still there.
I never cancelled it. Never even considered it. The bill comes every month and I pay it without hesitation.
Francesca never turns on location services, so I don’t know where she is.
But I know she’s somewhere.
I pull up the usage tab on her line.
Data use: Updated just nowLast activity: Today
Somewhere, she’s holding that phone. Scrolling. Reading. Maybe looking up directions. Maybe just killing time.
I don’t know where she is, what she’s doing, who she’s with.
I don’t know if she ever thinks about us.
But she’s alive.
Gram shifts in her chair and murmurs my name.
I lock the phone and set it face down on the table.
“I’m here,” I tell her, taking her hand. “I’m right here.”