Chapter 17 #2
My already sour mood plummets at the memory. Grief strangles me and I can’t manage to respond.
Confusion and pain flash across her face.
Shit. I don’t want to hurt her feelings, especially not after this weekend.
My silence erects a wall between us. I can feel the string held precariously between us start to unravel as she pulls away from me.
I need to fix this, I just can’t right now.
Not with memories of Sam shredding my heart.
I’ve barely parked the truck when she gathers her things and opens the passenger door.
She hops down and I can’t even turn my head to watch her go.
I wish she’d slam the door in my face, but she pauses.
Without looking at me, she deals the final blow to my battered heart.
In the saddest, sweetest tone, she says, “Happy Thanksgiving, Reid.” With that she gently shuts my door.
I wait to hear her front door click shut before driving away.
Why does it feel like she’s telling me goodbye?
Unfathomable pain is my constant companion all day Thursday. I’ve been in a bourbon-soaked haze since I left Isabelle. I barely manage the barest minimum of my chores—just enough to keep the horses healthy.
Thanksgiving is a somber affair. I think we all realized too late that this is the first major holiday without Sam.
His favorite holiday, that he'll never experience ever again. I was comforted that Quincy’s family would be joining us for dinner.
Quincy decided to move home after Sam died, saying there was nothing but ghosts left for her in Laramie.
Her parents begged her to move back in with them, but with her dad’s early onset Alzheimer’s disease, I think it would have been too much for her.
The poor girl can only shoulder so much grief at once before she collapses.
My parents offered up Sam’s parcel of land on the family ranch if she wanted it.
They gave each kid land when we turned eighteen to build on, so we’d always have a home on the ranch, but space of our own.
James and I are the only ones who ever built on our land.
Sam was infatuated with city living and stayed in Wyoming after college and married Quincy.
Sam's land has always been vacant. I guess we all assumed he’d come home eventually to settle down.
Now when I drive past his plot, it feels like a cemetery.
I can’t blame Quincy for not wanting to build a home on her dead husband’s family ranch.
Hell, I wouldn’t blame her if being around us was too hard.
But that’s not who she is, she loves with her whole heart—and even though she only shares our last name on paper, we’ll always love her like family.
Quincy’s mom took the reins and cooked a nice dinner, packed it up, and brought it to the ranch.
The four in her family, and the four in mine, eat in relative silence.
Small talk does little to fill the Sam-shaped void consuming the room.
Kudos and thanks are passed to Quincy’s mom who motions to Connor to clear the table while she leads her bewildered husband and my disintegrating parents to the family room.
On her way, my mom presses a kiss on my disfigured cheek.
I’m too empty to flinch like I normally do.
I can barely tolerate my face being shown in public, and it’s never touched.
It’s as if my body is here, but I'm not. I can’t stand looking into her devastated eyes, so I turn away and clear my throat.
James stays behind to help Connor and tips his head to me in Quincy’s direction.
She's putting on her coat and boots. I follow, grab my coat off the hook, and slide into my boots.
I can tell she needs to escape the suffocating grief in the house.
“I need some air—you want to come?” She nods solemnly and follows me outside.
The front door mercifully muffles the heartbreaking sobs coming from the house.
The wrap-around porch is completely covered, so the snow hasn’t piled onto the patio furniture. Wordlessly, we take a seat on the old porch swing. Using my longer legs, I softly propel us back and forth in the biting cold.
We sit in silence for I don’t know how long. It’s nice feeling the pain from the cold instead of the pain from missing Sam.
“Remember how Sam would build ‘The Perfect Turkey Sandwich’?”
Quincy gives me a small smile without meeting my eyes.
“One of mom’s giant dinner rolls split in half. Gravy spread on both sides. A spoonful each of stuffing, mashed potatoes, and green bean casserole, smashed down by a massive piece of dark meat. I swear he unhinged his jaw to take bites of the damn thing.”
She gives the faintest chuckle. “It was repulsive to watch him eat it.” Her chuckle grows infinitesimally. My heart warms knowing I brought her a shred of peace today.
We sit with our memories on the porch, the faint creak from the swing the only sound. Love is a real bitch. We're born needing it to survive, crave it for comfort, and seek it our entire lives. People marry and they divorce. You pour your heart and soul into another person and they fucking die.
Sitting here next to Quincy, I realize how grateful I am to have had twenty-nine years loving and being loved by Sam. Quincy had so little time with Sam. How is that fucking fair?
I’ve never been in love, and I already can’t keep anyone around. The people I lost after my accident were shit friends, but it still hurt, as pathetic as that feels. The love of my family has always been enough, and our love has held us together after losing Sam.
I never could imagine letting someone into my life, removing my heart from my chest, and handing it to them—until Isabelle. Watching Quincy drown in her grief, I can’t help but wonder if it was worth it. Is the suffocating grief worth the years they had together?
“Was it worth it?”
“Was what worth it?” Quincy asks, vacant eyes peering out into the dark night.
Shit, I didn’t mean to say that out loud.
“Loving someone so much and losing them?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. Her answer leaves no room for interpretation. She's not harsh or sharp in her reply, simply resolved. “Loving Sam is the best thing I’ve ever done. I'd choose him over and over again, even knowing it would end like this.” Her voice cracks in agony.
More intuitive than she has any right being, she pats my knee and says, “It’s worth it Reid. Finding love is worth it.” Images of Isabelle flicker through my mind, passing in and out of focus, but there’s no question what my heart is telling me.
Tires crunching on the snow-packed gravel driveway steal our attention.
Headlights glow through the black night and come to a stop in line with the other parked cars.
Both Quincy and I are wary of the trespasser.
Everyone who should be here is already here, so this person has no business intruding.
I stand from the swing and step in front of Quincy on instinct.
The intruder gets close enough for the porch lights to illuminate their face.
“Luke?” Quincy chokes out from behind me. She fumbles out of the porch swing and pushes past me to rush into his waiting arms. Hard sobs wrack her body and Lucas murmurs into her hair as he rubs up and down her back.
My chest aches watching Sam’s widow sob into his best friend’s chest. Sam, Quincy, and Lucas Langford became an inseparable trio in college. Their three musketeers are now only two.
Quincy’s delicate fingers are fisted into Luke’s shirt as he gently cradles the back of her head. I'm grateful he took the time away from his own family to comfort Quincy on what he surely knows was Sam’s favorite holiday.
I turn my back and go back into the house, leaving them to mourn in private.
I find the kitchen and dining room empty and hear murmurs from the family room. I have nothing left, exhausted from the weight of the day, so I leave the main house without any goodbyes and go home.
I wish I was anywhere but here—somewhere my little brother isn’t dead.
My pain intensifies recalling Isabelle sadly telling me Happy Thanksgiving .
I don’t know yet how much damage I’ve caused in our sapling relationship by shutting her out.
On a slumberous exhale, with only my bedroom walls to hear me, I say, “Happy Thanksgiving, Isabelle,” knowing it’s too little, too late.
The last thing I see before I shut my eyes is her vibrant face as nothingness consumes me.