Chapter 35
Flashback
I was home from college for the weekend, still living half in my dorm room and half in the version of myself that existed before I left. I hadn’t told anyone I was back yet. I wanted a night to settle into the house, to sleep in my old bed, to pretend nothing had changed.
Matt ruined that plan by pulling into the driveway without warning.
I heard the truck before I saw it, the familiar rattle, the uneven hum of an engine he refused to fix because it still ran “just fine.” I was halfway up the stairs when Mom called out that my brother was here.
By the time I reached the front door, Matt was already leaning against the hood.
“We’re going out,” he said.
“Where?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”
That was Matt. plans didn’t need details, you just showed up and figured it out as you went.
I hesitated long enough for him to roll his eyes.
“Come on,” he said.
So, I grabbed my jacket and followed him outside.
The car smelled like motor oil and stale gum and the cheap air freshener he kept clipped to the vent.
He drove with one hand on the wheel, window down, music too loud.
I watched the town pass by, noticing small changes, the closed hardware store, the new stop sign, things I wouldn’t have caught if I’d stayed.
We didn’t talk much. We never needed to.
He turned down a back road without explanation, gravel crunching under the tires, and eventually parked behind the high school bleachers. The field was dark, empty, the metal seats casting long shadows under the floodlights that hadn’t been turned off properly.
Matt reached behind his seat and produced a six-pack.
I stared at it. “You didn’t.”
He grinned. “Relax. I know a guy.”
He twisted one open and handed it to me.
“Don’t tell Mom.”
I took it, already regretting the decision. The first swallow burned and chocking. I gagged, coughing, eyes watering.
Matt lost it.
He leaned forward, laughing so hard he had to brace his hands on his knees. “Oh my God,” he wheezed. “You’re still such a lightweight.”
“Shut up,” I muttered, trying again. It didn’t go much better.
He laughed until tears streaked down his face, until the sound echoed across the empty field. His laugh always made other people smile just hearing it.
Eventually, we sat on the tailgate, legs dangling, the night settling around us. I nursed the beer slowly while he finished his second like it was nothing.
“You hate college yet?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “I just… feel like I’m pretending most of the time.”
He nodded like that made perfect sense.
“That’s normal,” he said. “Everyone’s pretending. Some people are just better at it.”
He slung an arm around my shoulders then, pulling me in close. He loved without restrain, solid and grounding.
“You’re gonna be fine, little brother,” he said. “You always get in your own head. Life’s easier than you think.”
I remember looking out over the empty field, the bleachers rising like quiet witnesses, and believing him completely.
Because he sounded so sure.
Because he was my big brother, my best friend.
He talked about the future like it was something friendly waiting up ahead. About settling down. About kids. About fixing up the house someday, even though he complained about it constantly. About how everything eventually worked itself out.
I didn’t say much, especially, when he got like that. I just listened, absorbing his certainty, letting it settle the stress in me.
When it got cold, we sat there anyway. When the beer ran out, we still didn’t leave. We talked about nothing. About everything. About a world that felt wide and forgiving.
At some point, he squeezed my shoulder and said, “Don’t disappear on us, okay?”
“I won’t,” I promised.
Standing here now, years later, that promise felt heavy.
Because I had disappeared.
Because life hadn’t been easier than he thought.
I still wished I could believe him. I still wished his voice could cut through the noise in my head the way it used to. I still wished I could sit beside him in the dark and let his certainty stand in for my own.
But the field was empty now. The truck was gone. And the person who had made me believe I’d be fine.
Was buried in the ground.
And no amount of remembering could bring him back.