16. Brinn
Chapter 16
Brinn
The sound of a truck backing up wakes us. Sunshine peeks through the gaps between the wood panels over the windows of Isaac’s bedroom.
“Storm must be over,” Isaac says as he sits up and stretches. “Let’s go check out the damage.”
“I’ll go check my yard,” I tell him.
Like groundhogs waking in spring, our neighbors’ heads poke out of doors. Some are already in their front yards, gathering debris.
“You have cell service yet?” an older woman across the street calls to Isaac and me.
I turn on my phone for the first time in days. Isaac and I had taken turns keeping our phones on to preserve the batteries.
“Hey, Maria.” Isaac waves. “Yeah, looks like I got it.”
My phone blinks to life, and the signal bars appear strong and steady. “Me, too!”
Maria grumbles something we can’t hear while holding her phone aloft. “Okay, thanks.”
Isaac and I move about our front yards, picking up debris. For the first time since the accident, the smell of the sea wind me doesn’t make me gag. It still sends an ominous chill down my spine despite the humid air. I try to shake it off as I pull a tree limb to the curb.
My phone chimes in my pocket, giving me a great excuse to delay going into the backyard for another minute.
I should have ignored it.
While I was never close to Josh’s best friend, Kevin, he’s kind enough to check up on me semi-regularly. In particular, he reaches out around Josh’s birthday and the anniversary of the accident. Since Josh’s birthday was in January, I know there’s only one other reason Kevin is texting.
Josh’s ghost seems to appear alongside me as I read the well-meaning text.
Kevin: Hey B, sending you lots of good vibes this next week. I can’t believe it’s been three years... Are you doing okay? It’s been ages since we talked. Call me soon :)
For the first time in weeks, Josh is on my mind. The guilt floods me like seawater swamping a boat.
The fact that I live in the house we shared has been compartmentalized. The location of that house, and that I moved here for him, has been shoved away. That fucking box on the dining room table is no longer a looming omen but something to ignore.
It’s worse than forgetting the freckle on his chin. I forgot about him.
No, I didn’t forget. I just... didn’t think about him.
How could I do that? I loved him. I was going to marry him. How could I do that to him, to his memory? Would his sister and mother hate me for being with Isaac when his picture still hangs on my wall? Would he be angry with me for fucking the neighbor?
The specter of him walks alongside me as I go to the backyard.
No. This isn’t fair.
No. I am allowed to move on. It’s been three years.
I picked up my camera again. I found joy again. I am allowed to have these things. I am allowed to live my life.
Josh’s image nods in my head in agreement, and that pisses me off more. He doesn’t get a say here; he’s gone.
It’s been three years!
But how could I just move on from someone so important?
Pork Belly lets out an excited bark from next door. Isaac.
Am I so fickle in my affection that I could set aside my love for Isaac, too? Let it be the thing drowned out by everything around it, like I did for Josh?
He doesn’t deserve that. He’s too good for that—too kind to deserve such an injustice. He doesn’t deserve all the baggage and misery that comes with my love. I don’t deserve his kindness. I can’t drag him down with me.
I don’t know how long I’ve been staring at the garden beds, trapped in a quagmire of anguish and guilt, when Isaac’s arm comes around my shoulders. Plants and dirt strewn across the yard, the tarps lost in the fray. Wind and rain have ripped them to shreds. I feel a kinship with them in this state.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I can help you replant them soon.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I mumble. I pull away and silently gather the broken plants and bring them to the trash. Isaac says something about going to finish up his yard, and I nod. I put the potted plants back in their places outside. I take the lawn chairs out of the garage.
I shower the dirt and sweat and Isaac off my skin.
Then I turn off my phone and crawl into bed.