12. Brittney
— ? —
Brittney
The vigil becomes a ritual with variations.
Some nights he brings coffee - two cups, one black, one with oat milk. He leaves mine on the porch railing and retreats to his car without waiting for thanks. I find it still warm when I come out to check, which means he’s timing it. Paying attention.
Some nights I pretend I don’t see him at all. Walk right past the car, into the house, close the curtains. Those are the nights when wanting him feels too dangerous to acknowledge.
Tonight is not one of those nights.
Tonight I stop at his window.
“You brought sushi.”
He looks up from the container balanced on his dashboard. It’s from the place three blocks over. The place we used to order from when we were first married and too tired to cook.
“You remembered,” I say.
“I remember everything.” His voice is quiet. “The way you eat all the wasabi. The face you make when it’s too spicy but you refuse to admit it.”
My chest aches.
“Come inside.” The invitation is out before I can stop it. “Mom made too much dinner. You can’t eat sushi in your car like a serial killer.”
He stares at me. “Are you sure?”
“Don’t make me regret asking.”
He gets out of the car.
***
Mom doesn’t seem surprised to see him. Just pulls another plate from the cabinet, fills it with pot roast, and sets it down at the table like she’s been expecting him all along.
“You look terrible,” she says.
“Thank you, Mrs.-”
“Call me Mom. You’ve earned it.” She turns back to the stove. “Unlike some people in this family, you’ve been showing up.”
Shawn’s eyes meet mine across the table. Something complicated passes between us.
We eat in near-silence. The pot roast is perfect. Shawn cleans his plate twice. When he reaches for a third helping, Mom actually smiles.
“There’s pie after,” she says. “If you can make it that far.”
“I can make it.”
“Good. You need feeding. Can’t win back my daughter looking like a stray dog.”
“Mom,” I say.
“What? It’s true. Man shows up every night, sleeps in his car, probably eating gas station food-”
“I’ve been cooking,” Shawn says quietly. “Your pot roast recipe. I asked Fern to get it from you.”
Mom goes still.
“You cook now?”
“I’m learning.” He looks at his plate. “I never learned before. Never had to. But I want to make things. For her. With my hands.”
The kitchen is very quiet.
Mom turns back to the stove. Her voice comes out gruff. “The secret’s in the onions. You have to caramelize them slow. Most people rush it.”
“I know. It took me three tries to get it right.”
“Hmm.” She pulls the pie from the oven. “Maybe four times, you’ll actually make it edible.”
But she’s almost smiling when she says it.
***
After dinner, after Mom has retreated to her room with pointed comments about “young people needing privacy,” Shawn and I end up on the back porch.
The night is warm. Fireflies blink in the garden. Somewhere down the block, someone is playing music - something soft, with a lot of guitar.
“Thank you,” he says. “For letting me in.”
“Don’t read too much into it.”
“I’m not.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Can I ask you something?”
“Depends.”
“What do you need from me? Not what you think you should want. What you actually need.”
I consider the question. Consider him.
“I need you to stop apologizing.”
His head comes up.
“I’m serious. Every time you say ‘I’m sorry,’ it feels like you’re asking me to forgive you. And I’m not ready. I might not ever be ready. But I’m tired of feeling like you’re waiting for absolution.”
“What should I do instead?”
“Just… be here. Be different. Let me see it instead of hearing about it.”
He nods slowly. “I can do that.”
“And Shawn?”
“Yeah?”
“I need you to stop looking at me like I’m going to disappear.”
His jaw tightens. “I can’t help that.”
“Try.”
“Britt-” He runs a hand through his hair. “Every time I see you, I’m terrified it’s going to be the last time. That you’ll finally realize I’m not worth the effort. That you’ll wake up one day and decide you’re better off without me.”
“Maybe I am better off without you.”
The words land like stones.
“Maybe,” he agrees quietly. “But I’m not better off without you. And I’m selfish enough to keep trying anyway.”
We sit in silence. The fireflies blink. The music plays on.
“My Uncle Dave wants to teach you how to fix a carburetor,” I say finally.
“I don’t know what that is.”
“Neither do I. But apparently it’s important.”
“Okay.” He’s almost smiling. “I’ll learn about carburetors.”
“And Uncle Marcus wants you at poker next Thursday.”
“So he can take more of my money?”
“Obviously.”
“Fair.” He’s quiet for a second. “Anything else I should know about?”
“One thing.” I keep my eyes on the fireflies. “Helena approved you as a volunteer at the site. If you want it.”
He goes very still. “You asked her?”
“I didn’t stop her from offering.” Which isn’t the same thing, and we both know it. “Come tomorrow. Early. Wear boots you don’t mind ruining.”
“I don’t own boots I don’t mind ruining.”
“Then buy some.”
He doesn’t answer right away. When I finally look over, he’s staring at the garden like he’s afraid to move in case I take it back.
“Okay,” he says. “Boots.”
He looks at me. “What do you want?”
The question hangs between us.
I want you to kiss me. I want you to not kiss me. I want to climb into your lap and forget every reason I’m supposed to be cautious. I want to run inside and lock the door and pretend this doesn’t feel like falling.
“I want you to go home,” I say. “And come back tomorrow.”
“Same time?”
“Same time.”
He stands. Hesitates.
“Can I-” He stops. Starts again. “Would it be okay if I-”
“Just ask.”
“Can I hug you? Just once. Just for a second.”
I should say no. I should maintain distance. I should protect myself the way I’ve been protecting myself for months.
I stand up and step into his arms.
He holds me like I’m something precious. Like I might break. His chin rests on top of my head, and I can feel his heart slamming against my cheek, quick and unsteady.
“Thank you,” he whispers into my hair.
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I won’t.” But his arms tighten. “Britt?”
“Yeah?”
“I know you said not to apologize. But I need to say this once, and then I’ll stop.
” He pulls back just enough to look at me.
“I’m not sorry for the man I was. He’s the one who lost you, and he deserved to lose you.
But I’m sorry he ever made you doubt how extraordinary you are. That’s unforgivable.”
My eyes burn.
“Go home, Shawn.”
“Going.”
He walks to his car. I watch until his taillights disappear around the corner.
Then I go inside and press my back against the door and try to remember why I’m supposed to be strong.
***
Shawn
The art studio is empty at this hour.
Margaret left hours ago, after telling me my latest attempt looked like “a potato with aspirations.” I’m not sure that’s an insult. Potatoes are versatile.
The canvas in front of me is wrong. The eyes are wrong. They’ve been wrong for weeks, and I don’t know how to fix them.
I keep painting Brittney as I remember her - soft, accommodating, always smoothing things over. But that’s not who she is anymore. Maybe it was never who she was.
I scrape the paint off and start again.
This time I paint her angry. Eyes sharp. Jaw set. The face she made when she walked out of the elevator, when she stood on her mother’s porch and told my mother to leave, when she looked at me across a conference room and saw right through every wall I’d built.
It’s better. It’s not right. But it’s better.
***
Brittney
The problem with letting someone back in is that they don’t stay in the spaces you assign them.
Shawn at the construction site, carrying lumber. Fine. Expected. Controlled.
Shawn at Mom’s dinner table, listening to Uncle Dave explain the finer points of engine repair. Less controlled.
Shawn in the kitchen doorway while I wash dishes, close enough that I can feel his heat, not touching, just present-
That’s when things get dangerous.
“You have soap in your hair,” he says.
“Where?”
He reaches up. His fingers brush my temple, gentle, barely there.
I freeze.
His hand hovers. Eyes on mine. Waiting.
“Got it,” he says quietly.
He pulls away.
I grip the edge of the sink and try to breathe.
“Britt?” Mom’s voice from the living room. “The movie’s starting!”
“Coming,” I manage.
Shawn hasn’t moved. He’s still standing there, watching me with eyes that see too much.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“Then stop looking.”
Something flickers across his face - hurt, maybe, or understanding.
“I can go,” he says. “If this is too much-”
“It’s not too much.” I turn to face him. “It’s exactly as much as it should be. That’s the problem.”
He’s quiet for a long moment.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean-” I press my hands against my face. “I mean I spent years wanting you to look at me the way you’re looking at me now. And now that you are, I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know how to trust it.”
“You don’t have to trust it yet. You just have to let me keep showing up.”
“And if it’s never enough? If I never get there?”
“Then I’ll still be here.” He steps closer. Not touching. Just close. “I’ll be here until you tell me to leave. And maybe even after that.”
“That’s not healthy.”
“Probably not.” His voice drops. “But I’m not interested in healthy. I’m interested in you.”
The kitchen feels too small. The air feels too thick. My whole body is aware of him - the warmth of him, the nearness of him, the way his eyes keep dropping to my mouth.
“The movie’s starting,” I say weakly.
“I heard.”
“We should go watch it.”
“We should.”
Neither of us moves.
“Britt.” His voice is strained. “You’re looking at my mouth.”
“I know.”
“You should stop.”
“I know that too.” But I don’t stop. “This is the part where you do your countdown thing. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Very dramatic.”
“No countdown.” His eyes go dark. “I’m done counting. Next time, you close the distance or nobody does-”
“brITTNEY!” Mom’s voice, louder now. “THE POPCORN IS GETTING COLD!”
I step back. He lets me.
“Saved by the popcorn,” I say shakily.
“For now.” His eyes hold mine. “But I’m running out of restraint, Britt. You should know that.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
We walk into the living room together. Mom looks at us with knowing eyes but doesn’t say anything.
The movie plays. I don’t see any of it.
All I can think about is how close I came to closing the distance.
And what would have happened if Mom hadn’t called.