Chapter 12 Nova
NOVA
TIME TO brEATHE
Lincoln made it to the bank with twenty minutes to spare before Edwin was out the door and the building was locked up. With an easy smile and relaxed stance, he talked business and numbers with my boss, and snuck side eyes and sly smirks my way.
But then he left, as promised, and assured me of a six-thirty pickup from my front door.
Like a gentleman.
Now, I pull into my driveway and bring the truck around back, the squeak of its chassis and the groan of a vehicle already ten years old hitting my ears much like the Chevy used to.
Different sounds. Unfamiliar groans.
I come to a stop right where I’ve put the Chevy every day for years, and cutting the engine, I make an effort not to think about the déjà vu pulsing through my veins.
Not to think about the truck I miss and the family I wish I could come home to.
I allow myself no chance to sit in the cab and wallow in my what-ifs.
Instead, I snatch up my purse and keys and, pushing the door open, I slide out until my feet touch the gravel.
Slamming the door and starting up the porch stairs, I kick the top step out of habit and slide a key into the back door lock.
The sun heads toward the horizon behind me, glinting off the shiny black paint of the RAM and bouncing against the kitchen window overlooking the yard.
Despite working in an air-conditioned office, sweat makes my skin sticky, and the way the heat zaps a person’s energy is like a living, breathing being, wrapping its arms around my stomach and pulling me back when all I want to do is move forward.
But the house, at least, is blissfully cool.
Wandering to the dining table and pulling out a chair, I set my purse down and my keys on top. Then, reaching up, I drag my hair off my shoulders and allow my back a chance to breathe.
It’s so hot. So sticky and gross.
But I have a date in a little over an hour, and hair to wash and makeup to apply, so I leave my things in the kitchen and make a beeline for the hall, passing my bedroom and kicking my shoes off as I go.
The perk of living alone, at least, is that no one will complain about things being left in the hall.
I roll my lip between my teeth, my eyes on my target and the gleaming white tile Ryan and I laid ourselves two summers ago. And by Ryan and I, I mean Ryan did the work, and I heckled him a little bit.
Which, honestly, was my role all along.
I drop my hair and push the bathroom door open. But in my peripherals, Ryan’s door draws my focus.
I pause.
Frowning, I change direction and walk to his closed door.
Why am I coming this way when my plan was to ignore all things that make me sad tonight?
Why stare down at the knob when it’s just that?
A knob. Old and tarnished bronze. Shiny in the front, where hands rarely touch, and worn around the edges, where we’ve grabbed it a million times over the years.
I swallow and lick my dry lips, then I open the door and glance in, hit first with Ryan’s woodsy scent, still infused within his blankets and the weave of his rug.
I study his bed, still made with the sheets he last slept in, because I’m not ready to strip them off yet.
At the end, his bag I haven’t touched. Won’t touch.
Those are his things, and maybe someday, years from now, I might pull the zipper open and look inside.
But that day is not today.
I fight a battle between holding my breath—so I don’t cry—and wanting to breathe, purely so I can visit with my brother for a moment more. But I’m not sure which avenue to choose, and because of it, all I manage is a choppy inhale and a tremor to my jaw.
But the tears stay away, at least. The ache in my throat is mercifully gentle.
As I wander through his room, I nibble on the inside of my cheek and drag my fingertips across the blankets.
I eye the painting on the far wall, the one our mother created when we were just a prayer inside her belly, and coming to a stop in front of the slightly askew frame, I fix it with a tap of my thumb, only for the stark white glint of something in my peripherals to pull my attention.
Again.
I change course once more, my brows furrowing and my heart beating at a comfortingly calm pace, since a mystery is a million times better than grief. Curiosity is a kindness gifted from the universe. Crouching and extending my hand forward, I stroke what I know to be a USB stick.
Small. White. With a plastic outer and a steel tongue that slips into a computer.
I pick it up and turn it over in my palm.
But wondering what’s on the stick isn’t nearly as potent in my mind as how it ended up on the floor.
Because my imagination is like a dancer upon a stage, weaving a story and taking her rapt audience for a ride.
Was he preparing to head out for the day when he hurriedly meant to put it in his pocket?
Or maybe he took it out of his pocket and meant to set it on the bedside table.
That last morning, when he wasted my coffee and demanded breakfast at Dukes, he was smiling and happy.
Playful and, as brothers often are, annoying with his flicking fingers.
He didn’t mention a need to work, nor did he ask to borrow my laptop so he could plug it in.
He never hinted at wanting to show me something.
And if I’m being entirely, objectively, grossly honest, I’m forced to admit he was just a guy, like so many others, and one who spent extensive amounts of time in a situation not conducive to dating.
There’s a chance I won’t like what I find if I go snooping. And that thought leaves me both laughing and wrinkling my nose—creeped out, but thankful for the opportunity to not cry for him.
Standing tall, I fist the small fob in my palm and move around the bed again. Over the fluffy rug he never particularly liked. But I did, so he kept it. I draw a long breath and fill my lungs with what I know is his fading scent, then I step through the door and close it again at my back.
It’s time to take a shower and get ready for an evening spent with a man.
A man who is both challenging and comforting.
Sexy and a painful reminder of what I’m trying to forget.
I wasn’t looking for someone to invest my time and energy into, and I sure as hell wasn’t thinking about it after losing my brother.
But Lincoln is here anyway, and trauma bond or something else, I like how I feel when he’s in the same room. Even when I’m crying. Even when everything hurts, and the world feels just a little too heavy.
I like that he lightens the load sometimes.
Moving into the bathroom and reaching around with my free hand to lower the zipper of my dress, I set the USB on the vanity and step out of my clothes, letting them fall to the floor and pool at my feet.
In the silence of an empty home, on a road where few others drive, and outside town so the sound of someone else’s lawnmower can’t encroach on my space, I stand in front of the bathroom mirror in my bra and panties and a yellowing figure-eight bruise stamped against my ribs.
My gaze moves to the dog tag hanging from a steel chain, and beside it, the coin I can’t leave behind.
The last true connection I have to my brother.
The game of chance was always stacked against me.
It’s my coin now, so I like to think the game—of life, I suppose—is stacked in my favor for as long as I have it.
It was Ryan’s last gift to me.
My inheritance, in a way.
Frowning, I pinch the coin between my fingers and slide the pad of my thumb along the rough edging. Flipping it over, I marvel at how oddly ugly it is, yet how wonderfully special it will always be.
I remember how crazy I felt drilling a hole through the silver. A fit of grief, perhaps. A refusal to think sensibly. Desecrating something so profoundly important to my brother, and still, confident he wouldn’t mind.
In this family, we don’t acquire wealth and treasures and massive stock portfolios when someone passes away. Instead, from my father to my brother, and then my brother to me, we receive a home and a silver coin.
And that… that’s more than enough for me.
Dragging the chain up and pulling it over my head, I hang it from the toothbrush hook I stuck to the mirror eons ago, then unhooking my bra and sliding my underwear down, I move to the shower and turn the taps on.
Time to soap and shave and do all those performative things some women secretly enjoy. Then I can dress and date, and for a couple of hours, at least, I can breathe.