Teddy
JULY
“You got a lot of fucking nerve, Mama’s Boy.”
A week later, I’m walking outside Hyde Cancer Center looking for a lifeline, and Phoebe is the first person I see.
Since she was pretty much Indie’s best friend, the hatred in her eyes makes immediate, brutal sense. If looks could kill, I’d be six feet under already. She takes a long drag from her cigarette and blows the smoke in my direction, the sharp scent burning my nose.
“Jesus Christ,” she drawls, dragging her gaze over me. “You look like fucking roadkill.”
I already know that.
Still, I glance down at myself—the days-old blue T-shirt, the wrinkled jeans I dragged on half an hour ago when the itch for any news about Indie became too much to ignore.
Earlier, when I hauled myself out of bed to piss, I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror and immediately shut the light back off.
Dark circles, an overgrown beard, skin with a weird gray cast, and a completely dead look in my eyes. It’s good to know the outside finally matches the inside.
“Do you know where she is?” I ask her, ignoring the jabs.
Phoebe flicks ash toward the curb.
“Better question—why the fuck do you care? You sure as hell didn’t care the last couple months when you were treating her like shit.
And let’s not forget letting your psycho mother treat her like shit,” she points at me with two fingers, cigarette pinched between them.
“Tell your mommy it’s on fucking sight if I ever see her around here. ”
"Very fair, and I won't stop you," I nod, my voice trembling as desperation creeps in. "But I just need to know that Indie is safe."
She scoffs. "She's away from you and Norma Bates. She's safe."
My body relaxes. That's all I deserve to know.
"Thanks, Phoebe," I murmur, shoving my hands into my pockets. "For being there for her."
That makes one of her eyes twitch. Her nose and mouth curl like she smells something rotten.
"She’s one the toughest women I've ever met," she says, voice low and vicious. "I've watched her take shit from patients, shit from their families, and let it roll right off her back. But you—"
She points at me.
"—you're the little prick who broke her."
My eyes squeeze shut against the sudden, sharp pain in my chest. Indie's face has been almost constant in my mind lately—the private Indie, the version of her she only trusted me with.
Just like I trusted her with my art, my thoughts, my feelings—everything I was too scared to show anyone else.
My mother has been reaching out incessantly, leaving manic voicemails that swing wildly between screaming at me and cooing in that soft voice that we're a family, that we can fix this, that she needs me.
The last conversation I had with her was three days ago, right before I blocked her. She called me twenty times in two minutes.
Wailing greeted me the second I answered. Loud, dramatic, choking wails that would have had me dropping everything and running to her before.
Now they just made me roll my eyes and pull the phone away from my ear.
"Theodore, everything is broken! Our family is humiliated—no one will speak to me, no one will answer my calls. I'm a joke!"
My jaw tightened. I was just about to hang up when her voice dropped, still wobbling, but with a sickeningly sweet tone. The same voice she used like she was a snake charmer and I was her idiot cobra.
"I just—I don't know how I'm supposed to live like this—I feel so alone—I'm scared I'm going to do something—"
And that's it.
When she would speak like that, there was a tightening in my chest, a churning in my gut, and an itchy feeling all over my skin with one command in my mind—fix it, fix it, fix it.
Rage surged through me so fast it made my head spin.
"So, fucking do it already—" I roared, my voice booming off the walls of my bedroom. "—and leave me alone!"
I felt guilty for maybe half a second. I never want anyone to hurt themselves.
I don't. But then Indie's face came rushing back and washed the guilt right out of me.
Beneath that was the uglier realization that my mother is too vain to actually hurt herself—she just wanted to keep using the fear of it to control me.
I've been wallowing in bed ever since. Not proud of it, but there hasn't been much else to do besides wait for my first therapy appointment next week.
Danielle referred me to someone who does telehealth, which, for some reason, feels easier than sitting face-to-face in an office and saying all of this out loud. She told me that it was normal and exactly how she felt when she started therapy.
I remember the expression I made when she said it on FaceTime—guilty, about to apologize again—because she sighed and rolled her eyes.
"Listen, Theo—for a while after high school, when I was in Europe—yeah, I really fucking hated you.
Which my therapist told me wasn't healthy, because then that meant Mom won.
I was angry at her intended target, not the actual root issue itself.
You didn't set up the system in our house—Mom did.
She's the true villain in this—well, the patriarchy is the real villain, but let's stay local—"
I think the fact that my sisters still talk to me shows their strength, because if the roles were reversed, would I be able to actually see what was going on?
They have every right to hate me, to cut contact completely. They could have done that after Nana died, no more anchor keeping them to Mom.
But they stayed for me. So I need to show that I'm worth it. I need to show up every day with the intention to change for me.
The sad truth is that I have nothing right now. No job. No desire to draw. No desire to pull my ass out of bed.
My friends and sisters are disappointed in me, even if they're supportive. My family is a disaster, going viral on social media and the laughingstock of our neighborhood. My Nana is gone.
And worst of all—so far above everything else it makes the rest feel tiny—I broke the love of my life, and I have no idea where she is.
Is this what rock bottom is?
Because if it is, rock bottom gives someone a lot of time to think. And think and think and think.
I keep cataloging every moment I could have chosen differently.
Then I start tracing the rot backwards. High school with Lily, saying yes when I should have said no because Mom wanted it. Middle school, while Danielle and Stephanie did chores and I got to fuck off and play. Childhood, skinning my knee and crying while Dad called me a little pansy boy.
And then I think back even earlier, into the years I can't clearly remember, and that's the part that scares me most.
What if this rot is so old it's built into me? What if my family put it there so deep I can't ever carve it out?
I don't like lingering on those thoughts.
I've also had a lot of time to think about love.
Which means I've had a lot of time to think about Indie, because at this point, those words are synonymous in my head.
Indie is love.
But love is not just one feeling, is it?
You can't just say I love you, and that's it; everything is perfect.
I think of Nana and Pop, the truest love I've ever witnessed.
Mutual support and respect, and defending each other even when the other one isn't in earshot.
I wanted to emulate that, and I think I did in some areas.
Because I love Indie, and she, for some reason, loved me too. Love is made up of a thousand small things—trust, honesty, vulnerability, laughter, grief, care, choosing each other again and again. All of it wrapped into one word.
But love isn't a noun, it's not an adjective, it's a verb.
It's speaking up when it's scary. It's correcting my mother when she says Indie's name wrong. It's believing Indie when she says someone gave her gluten on purpose to hurt her.
It's defending her when people pick at her height, her quietness, every single thing I happen to adore about her.
I felt love for Indie, but I did not show it. Not the way she showed it to me.
"Do you feel her loss?"
Phoebe's voice snaps me out of my thoughts.
I nod once. "Every second."
"Good," she grinds the cigarette out beneath her shoe, and looks at me with disgust. "Maybe that's a fraction of what she's felt since January."
Then she turns and walks back into the cancer center.
I got what I needed, though.
That has to be enough for now.
It's two days later when Heath and Luke drag me out of bed because, according to them, moping isn't going to do shit for me.
Like a heartbreak cliche, I've been lying in bed, listening to sad music, surrounded by Indie—the photos she threw out, the drawings, the photos on my phone.
Sleeping off and on because at least asleep, maybe I'll dream I didn't ruin everything and still have her.
Staying awake because I also think I deserve every second of the heartbreak.
It's a vicious cycle. Not healthy. Not productive. Definitely pathetic.
"Dude, you fucking reek," Luke says, grimacing. That's when I realize I genuinely can't remember the last time I showered. "Get up. Shower. Eat something. We're going to the gym."
I want to argue, but I don't. Because my head is pounding from lack of food, and I feel weak. So, I get up and carefully—gently—place the precious drawings and photos of Indie away in my fire safe. My eye catches the ringbox in there, and I almost want to ignore it.
But I can't.
With a shaky hand—God, I really need to get some food in me—I grab the box and open it up.
Moonstone. The blue in it reminds me of Indie's eyes. Of love. Of loss. It's on a delicate rose gold band because I could picture how gorgeous it looked on Indie's skin tone. Dainty—as Nana would call it—leaves wrap around the band, tiny stones tucked between them.
It's beautiful.
The woman I wanted it for even more so.
Stephanie and Danielle both thought it was perfectly Indie when I showed them the final product. I can't help but picture it on Indie's fingers, but I know it might never get there.
My eyes can't help but gravitate toward the leather-bound book next to my bed. The sketchbook, the insanely nice one that Indie had bought me. I've been using it as a journal of sorts, not really a coherent string of thoughts, more just... fragments that pop into my mind.
The most important are the reminders and goals I have for myself—my plan to be the man Indie deserves. Maybe a bucket list, too.
Go to art school.
Go to therapy.
Talk about the scary stuff, even when it's hard.
Make amends with Stephanie and Danielle, even if it takes your entire life.
Be the man Pop was.
Be a man who Indie could be proud of.
That last one is underlined twice.
I close the ringbox and place it back in the safe, sliding the heavy thing back under my bed.
Then I get up, shower, and eat the sandwich Heath got me from the deli, let them shove me into Heath's car, and drag me to the gym.
I'm weak as hell, so I mostly walk on the treadmill and keep the weights low on the machines. Heath and Luke linger nearby at first, watching me like I might collapse, but once they realize I'm at least steady, they go do their own workouts.
"Remember," Luke says before heading to the squat rack, "depression and heartbreak can't hit a moving target."
The more I walk, the less numb I feel. Not great—not even good. But for a little while, I feel like a person again.
I'm finishing up at the chest press machine when I feel eyes on me. Not uncommon; usually, people look at you to signal they want to use the machine you're on.
I'm finishing up my set when an older man in gym clothes walks over to me, his brow furrowed, and eyes narrowed.
"Are you Theodore Williams?"
Caught off guard, I let the weight stack drop with a clang that echoes through the room. The man doesn't even flinch, just tilts his head as he waits for my answer.
I try to place him, but I can't remember ever meeting him. He looks to be as old as Nana was, with thinning salt-and-pepper hair, a short white beard, and a look on his face that could get me to confess all my wrongdoings.
"Yeah?" I answer.
His expression shifts into irritation.
"Yeah, I thought so—you look just like Ted." He plants his hands on his hips. "Listen, Theodore, I lost my wife two years ago. I understand grief, I do. But we need to settle Eleanor Ambrose's estate, and frankly, I think finally dealing with it might actually help you."
I blink at him.
"Hold on," I say, trying to get my brain to catch up. "I don't know what you're talking about. My Nana's estate?"
He stares at me.
"You haven't gotten any of my messages?"
When I shake my head, he pulls out his phone and squints down at it.
"Infernal goddamn machine—my granddaughter said it was time to enter this century. I've never had any of these problems with landlines. Does your number end in 2444?"
"No. 2244."
"Son of a bitch," he growls. "I checked with her twice—twice," he jabs two fingers in the air for emphasis, "to make sure the number was correct."
"Nana?" I ask, clarifying who the her is that he's talking about.
"No," he waves his hand. "Dawn."
I sit up straight. "What?"
"Your Nana redid her will back in December. I've been trying to reach you ever since she passed. I even had interns send letters to your mother's house. I was about to hire a damn process server just to force your ass into my office."
My mouth opens, closes, then opens again. "I didn't get anything—"
"Yeah, no shit," he snaps. "Because your mother gave me the wrong damn number. And every time I called her, she said it wasn't the right time, that you were grieving, not doing well, mentally delicate."
"Fucking Christ," I mutter. "No, I had no idea she even had a will. I thought she and Pop just left everything to her and my aunts, and they already handled it."
"I'm Duncan Hale," he says, holding out his hand. "Call me Dunk. I'm your Nana's estate lawyer."
"Nice to meet you," I wince. "Sorry about—"
"You would not believe the family insanity I've seen doing this work. Listen, the will is pretty straightforward—the only beneficiaries in the will are you, Danielle McClane, Stephanie Williams, and..." he pauses, frowning as he looks back down to his cellphone. "...Dr. Indiana Miller."
My heart jolts at the name so hard it hurts.
"Indie," I breathe, my heart pounding. "That's my girl—"
I stop. Nope. Not anymore. I don't deserve to call her my girlfriend anymore. I clear my throat.
"She was... she was very special to my grandmother."
"Yeah," he says dryly, wiggling the phone at me. "I gathered that from the amount she left her."
My heart is pounding now. Nana left something to Indie. Because she was family. She was my true family.
Indie. Nana. Stephanie and Danielle. Heath and Luke.
"Anyway," Dunk says, exasperation slipping back into his tone, "can we please set a meeting? My office is right down the street."
I'm already getting off the machine.
"How about now?"
Even though it's in the middle of his workout, Dunk doesn't look displeased.
Instead, he smiles and sighs in relief.
"Let's get this show on the road."