Chapter 34
Ethan
All morning, I had been trying to convince myself to follow through on the decision I’d made the night before. Today was supposed to be the day I stopped running and faced the guilt I’d been trying to avoid, by visiting Matt and Jenny’s graves.
Dad didn’t ask why I suddenly wanted to go. He just grabbed his keys and told me to get my jacket. That was always his way, steady and no questions he didn’t need answers to. I was grateful for it.
The cemetery sat at the edge of town, quiet beneath a line of tall pines. The air felt cooler there, or maybe it just seemed that way. Even sound felt muted, like the place asked for it. We walked the gravel path without talking, the crunch under our shoes the only noise between us.
When we reached Matt and Jenny’s markers, Dad stopped a few steps back. Then he turned and headed toward another section, going to visit a friend he’d lost to cancer three years earlier. He was giving me space.
I stood there for a moment, breathing in slowly before stepping closer.
Seeing their names carved into stone hit harder than I expected. It made my stomach turn.
I stopped in front of Matt’s marker.
“Hey,” I said quietly. “I’m really mad at you.”
The words came out rough, but honest.
It felt wrong talking to a piece of stone instead of my brother. Matt would’ve interrupted by now, cracked a joke, told me to stop being dramatic. The thought made my throat tighten. I would’ve given anything to hear him cut me off one more time.
I shifted my weight, staring at the clean lines of his name. It had only been a month, but Mom had already made sure everything looked taken care of. Neat. Orderly. Like she could control at least that.
The memories surfaced.
◆◆◆
Flashback
Age 12
I remembered the cold first.
The brick wall at the side of the school was rough and unforgiving against my back, scraping through my hoodie as I was shoved into it.
The sound of my shoulder hitting echoed sharper than it should have, loud enough that I worried someone might hear, but no one ever came to this part of the building.
That was why they’d dragged me there in the first place.
Two eighth graders. Bigger. Older. Smelling like sweat and cheap deodorant. One of them had his forearm pressed across my chest, not enough to choke me, just enough to make it hard to breathe. The other stood too close, grinning like this was entertainment.
I remember thinking, stupidly, Don’t cry.
Like that was the worst thing I could do.
My face felt hot. My throat burned. I was angry. Angrier than I knew what to do with, but the kind of anger that turns inward first. The kind that makes you hate yourself for being smaller, weaker.
“C’mon,” one of them said. “You gonna do something or just stand there?”
I tried to shove him back. My hands hit his chest and slid off uselessly. He laughed and pushed me harder, my elbow scraping against the brick. The sting came a second later, sharp and bright.
I tasted blood. I don’t even remember biting my lip.
And then Matt was there.
He didn’t announce himself. Didn’t yell across the yard or draw attention. One second it was just me and them and the wall, and the next there was a shadow cutting between us.
“Hey.”
Matt’s voice wasn’t loud, but it was solid. Steady. The kind of voice that didn’t need to shout to be heard.
He was fifteen then. All elbows and knees, still growing into himself, but already taller than both of them. His shoulders filled the space like he belonged there. Like this was exactly where he was supposed to be standing.
“What’re you doing picking on a kid who’s half your size?” he said.
The arm across my chest disappeared immediately.
The eighth graders stepped back, sudden and cautious. I saw it in their faces, the recalculation. Matt had that effect on people. He didn’t look scary. He just looked certain. Like he knew exactly who he was and wasn’t afraid to take up space.
“He started it,” the big one muttered.
Matt didn’t even look at me. His eyes stayed on them, calm and unimpressed.
“Then you finish it with someone your own size,” he said. “Or you walk away.”
There was a pause. A beat where I thought maybe they wouldn’t.
Then they did.
They muttered something under their breath and backed off, walking fast, not quite running. Matt waited until they were gone before he turned to me.
The shift was immediate.
“Jesus,” he said, softer now. “You okay?”
I nodded, even though my chest still felt tight and my elbow throbbed. Matt stepped closer, careful, like he didn’t want to startle me. He took my arm gently and turned it, examining the scrape.
“You’re bleeding,” he said.
“It’s nothing.”
“Yeah,” he replied, unconvinced. “That’s what you said when you broke your wrist too.”
I scowled at him. “I didn’t break it.”
“You definitely broke it.”
“I definitely didn’t.”
He snorted and let go of my arm, then looked at me properly. His eyes lingered on my face, checking for tears I was pretending weren’t there.
Then he smirked.
“You throw punches like your girlfriend, Claire.”
I froze.
He knew I liked her. Of course he knew. Everyone knew, apparently.
I shoved his shoulder hard. “Shut up.”
He laughed, loud and easy, the sound bouncing off the brick wall.
I laughed too, because the tension had cracked, because the moment had passed, because he’d shown up when I needed him and didn’t make a big deal out of it.
That was Matt. He just showed up.
I remember how we walked home together after that, him carrying my backpack even though I told him not to.
I remember him stopping at the corner store and buying me a soda with the last of his cash, insisting it was “medicinal.” I remember how he talked about his plans, college, me leaving and getting out, like the future was something you could map out if you wanted it badly enough.
I remember thinking he was invincible.
Standing here now, years later, with his name carved into stone, that memory hurt more than most.
Because I could still see him so clearly, fifteen and fearless, stepping between me and the world without hesitation. Because I could still hear his laugh, still feel the safety of it settling into my bones.
He’d spent his whole life protecting me.
And I hadn’t been there when he needed me.
The thought sat heavy in my chest, familiar and unforgiving. I wondered how many times he’d done that for me over the years, how many walls he’d put himself between me and something sharp without me even noticing.
I wondered if he’d known how much it mattered.
If he’d known that when I think of my childhood, when I think of safety, when I think of what it meant to be loved.
I think of him standing in front of me, blocking the blow, smirking like it was nothing at all.
I huffed out a breath, shaking my head. “I should’ve spent more time with you,” I said. “You were always there for me. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”
Another memory surfaced, just as sharp.