33. Rae
33
RAE
Then
T here’s this moment after someone you love dies when you realize that you’ll have to spend every day of the rest of your life reminding yourself that they’re gone. That you’ll never hear their voice again, that no matter how many times you dial their number, they won’t ever answer. For me, that moment comes when my plane lands and everyone pulls out their phones, turning off airplane mode and sending texts to let the people who are waiting for them know that they made it safely.
I pull my phone out too, send a text to Zoila, Dee, Hunter and then I type out a text to Will. My finger hovers over the send button, and I’m just about to press it when my brain catches up to reality. When I realize that I could hit send, and the text would go through, but Will won’t receive it.
That reality destroys me.
It sets the tears I’ve been holding back for the week it’s taken me to get the courage to return to New Haven free. It turns me into the weird lady who’s crying on an airplane, in baggage claim, and in the passenger pick-up area that everyone sees but tries not to look at. It makes me a sad, sobbing mess that collapses into her boyfriend’s arms the moment he loads her suitcases in the back of his truck and opens them for her.
“I’m right here, baby. I’m right here,” Hunter murmurs into the rat’s nest of curls I haven’t washed in a week. He squeezes me tight, rocking me back and forth while the world moves on around us.
“Hey! You gotta keep moving,” someone shouts at us, blowing a whistle that sets Hunter in motion. He lets me go, ushering me into the truck and slamming the door once I’m inside. Through the side mirror, I watch him turn toward the guy with the whistle, and even though I can’t see his face, I can read his posture. I can see the tension lining his shoulders and the hostility in his body as he approaches the man. Despite being the authority in this space, the guy backs away, shaking his head as Hunter advances on him, heedless of the fact that he’s got his hands up in a universal sign of surrender.
I roll my window down just in time to hear the man tell Hunter that he doesn’t want a problem. Hunter puts one thick finger into the man’s chest.
“Blow that fucking whistle at me again, and you’ll have more than a problem,” he growls. “You think I give a shit if people are upset about me spending five seconds comforting the love of my life when she’s just flown in for her brother’s funeral ?”
“Sir, I understand, but this is a pickup zone. It’s my job to keep things moving.”
“Did you hear what I just said? I don’t give a fuck about your job. I give a fuck about her.” He hooks his thumb over his shoulder, pointing at me. “Your job description and your whistle don’t mean shit to me.” The pickup area is loud, filled with the sounds of idling engines, squealing brakes, and more, but Hunter is loud. Loud enough to draw the attention of several people standing around. One lady, a wiry, petite redhead in a yoga set, starts to look around, probably trying to find security, which is when I decide to hop out of the truck and intervene.
“Hunter, you’ve gotta stop,” I tell him, placing a staying hand on his shoulder. When he turns around to look at me, his eyes are wide and wild, filled with anger that only dissipates a little when he realizes that it’s me. “Please,” I plead, tears born of fear and exhaustion brimming in my eyes, “I just want to go home.” My hand slides down his arm until our fingers are linked together. “Can you please just take me home?”
For a moment, I think he’s going to shrug me off, that’s just how pissed he is, how far outside of himself he is, but then he calms. His eyes focus on my face, and he pushes out a steadying breath as he squeezes my fingers. Then he nods, and everyone around us, but especially the object of his aggression, breathes a sigh of relief.
“Yeah, Sunshine.”
The drive from the airport is quiet and tense and sad, but Hunter holds my hand the whole way, which forces me to remember that I’m not alone. He’s in this with me. He’s sad like I’m sad, hurt like I’m hurt, but because he’s here and we’re together, I’m not alone in any of it.
When I realize that we’re heading to my house and not Hunter’s, I break the silence. “Why aren’t we going to your place?”
Hunter glances at me. “You said you wanted to go home.”
“I know, but not—” I swallow, pushing the words out past the lump of emotion in my throat that’s inspired by the thought of going back to the house where my brother died. “I can’t go there. I don’t want to go there. I want to go to our home.”
It’s the last place I had good memories with Will. Where we celebrated my graduation from college and hugged each other goodbye when I left for New York, it’s where I want to be because it’s where Hunter is, where he’s been since Will left, and I want to sit in our tree and cry.
“Okay,” he says, changing lanes and heading in the direction of his house while I close my eyes, letting my brain wander from one heart breaking thought to the next until they’re forced to pop open again.
“Why didn’t you tell me it had gotten worse?” I whisper, voicing the question I’ve been asking myself since I got the call that changed my life. I’ve been meaning to ask Hunter, but between the crying and funeral arrangements—most of which he has handled—I could never find the time.
Hunter’s knuckles bulge as he grips the steering wheel. “He didn’t want you to know. When they told him it was in his lungs, I asked him to let me call you, to explain that his prognosis had changed, but he said if I did you’d drop everything and come home, and he didn’t want you to do that.”
More tears. This time, because Will’s certainty in my dedication to him is a direct affront to the shaky commitment I’ve demonstrated over the past few months. I’ve called and texted and checked in after every appointment. I even came home right after the cancer was confirmed. But I wasn’t committed to him. I wasn’t here for him, not the way I was for Mommy. Not the way he would have been here if it was me.
I’ve spent a lot of time feeling guilty about that, but it was never enough to move me. To pull me out of the fear and pain-induced paralysis that’s lived inside me since the care and well-being of my only parent fell on my shoulders. I didn’t know that it was there until Will got sick. I didn’t know that when faced with the choice to show up and fight or stay frozen in place, that I would freeze. That my muscles would seize up and my heart would go numb, and my mind would force out everything that was too serious and too painful, refusing to hold on to it for longer than a second.
My bottom lip trembles as the tears fall in hot streams that I can’t bother to wipe. Hunter doesn’t explain further. He just offers me his hand and lets me dig my nails into his skin because the pain is too much. And when we get home, he unloads my suitcase and takes it into the house while I leave a trail of tears on the way to our tree. I climb up on the lowest branch and sit out there for hours, shedding tears that are carried off by the chilly November air.
The sun has gone down by the time Hunter comes to get me, and I’m surprised that he’s let me stay out here for so long. He’s carrying a blanket that he slings around my shoulders before he wraps his arms around me and picks me up.
“You’re going to catch a cold,” he says, adjusting his grip to make sure he doesn’t drop me. He’s a little unsteady on his feet, and I don’t know if it’s because he’s tired or because the ground is uneven, but he doesn’t drop me, and I’m not worried for a single second that he will.
“I don’t care if I get sick,” I tell him, laying my head against his chest.
“I care.”
And it’s enough. His care. His concern. It’s enough to stop me from arguing, enough for me to snuggle into his warmth and allow myself to be comforted by the beating of his heart.
When we’re inside, Hunter sets me on the counter beside a bowl of soup. I’m not hungry, but I still open up when he stands between my legs with a spoon in his hand and orders me to.
“You cooked?” I ask, swallowing the warm broth, shredded chicken, and spiral noodles down without swallowing.
“Nate brought it by,” he grimaces at the mention of Will’s sponsor, and I wonder what the issue is with the two of them. “I just warmed it up.”
“That was nice of him.”
I make a mental note to call Nate and thank him. He’s been trying to get in touch with me all week, probably just to check in, but I haven’t answered. I haven’t done a lot of things I’m supposed to do.
“His wife made it,” Hunter says, feeding me another bite, this one full of perfectly tender carrots and onions. “All he did was drive it over so he could get in my ass about not returning his calls.”
“You’ve been ignoring him too.”
One corner of Hunter’s mouth kicks up. It’s not quite a smile, but he’s no longer grimacing. He tries to put the spoon to my mouth again, but I push his hand away, guiding the spoon back to the bowl.
“Sunshine, you have to finish eating.”
“I don’t want to eat.”
Hunter drops the spoon, and I shrug off the blanket before wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him down for a kiss. He gives in easily; maybe he doesn’t want to feel either. Maybe he needs the connection as much as I do. Whatever the reason, I’m grateful because it’s exactly what I need. Everything else falls away as my hands start to explore his body and his do the same in return.
He cups my breasts, running his thumbs over my nipples before gripping the hem of my sweatshirt and pulling it up over my head. I shiver under the weight of his gaze and the heat of his lips when he lays kisses down my neck, across my chest, moving from one breast to the other while I cradle his head in my hands.
“I’ve missed you,” he lays the confession over my heart, and tears blur my vision, so I close my eyes.
“I’ve missed you too. I’m sorry I didn’t come back, Hunter. I’m sorry I?—”
“Shhh. We don’t have to talk about it.”
His lips close over my nipple, and his tongue rolls around the hardened pebble until I cry out, desperate for more of the mind numbing pleasure he’s just promised. It’s been months since we’ve been together like this, but Hunter knows me, he knows my body, and he knows what I want. His fingers go to the elastic band of my leggings, pulling them down impatiently while I lift my hips to help him get them past my ass.
They hang around my ankles while Hunter spreads my thighs; his fingers are rough and perfect as they part my lips, two of them slipping inside of me with ease because I’m already wet. He brings his mouth back to mine, and I moan into him, rolling my hips because I want it harder, because I need him deeper.
“I love you,” he says, biting my lip. “I love you so fucking much.”
“I know,” I whimper. “I love you too.”
And I do love him. I love his head and his heart and the way he makes me feel. I love his fingers moving deep inside me, massaging that perfect spot that causes my walls to clench and my thighs to quake around his sides.
“That’s right, Sunshine, give it to me,” he says. “Give it all to me.”
I don’t have a choice. I couldn’t hold back if I tried, if he asked me to, so it’s a relief that he wants it all. That he wants my pleasure and the pain hiding behind it. I come with a shout that echoes through the kitchen, and Hunter doesn’t stop fucking me with his fingers until everything I have to give has been wrenched from me, and the tears are flowing freely.
At the sight of them, the fire in Hunter’s eyes tries to die, tries to transform into something softer, something more comforting. But I don’t want comfort, at least not the kind that will come from words and not actions. I want this. I want his body and his hands. I want to forget.
“I’m fine,” I assure him, reaching for the band of his sweatpants. He shakes his head, stopping me with gentle fingers wrapped around my wrists. His eyes rove over my face.
“You’re not fine, Rae, and that’s okay. We don’t have to do this.”
“But I want to.” Desperation threads its way through my words. “I want to, Hunter. I need to. Please.”
He sighs and lets go of my wrists, allowing me to continue undressing him. I wrap my fingers around his shaft, and his head falls back as he lets out a shuddered moan. The tortured sound is a call for connection that demands to be answered by my soul. I grip him tighter, running my hand up and down his length until his jaw turns rigid and there’s precum leaking from his tip.
“Rae.”
“Come here,” I tell him, and he steps forward, allowing me to circle his hips with my legs. I hold him close, the heels of my feet digging into his ass as his dick notches at my entrance. Hunter’s eyes flare with the desire to continue, even as he shakes his head.
“Let me grab a condom.”
“Don’t stop,” I whisper. “Stay right here with me, please.”
I wrap him up tighter, pull him in closer, and he’s strong enough to pull away, to stop this, but he doesn’t. He stays with me like I’ve asked him to, and when I roll my hips in a silent invitation, he thrusts forward, giving me the first glorious inch of his dick and the feel of him unobstructed by anything else for the first time.
“More.” I pull him down for another kiss, and he reciprocates, giving me exactly what I’ve asked for. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt. His bare skin, my slick channel. His lips on mine. The quiet, soft suction of my pussy as it clutches at his veined flesh every time he advances and retreats.
Hunter wraps his arms around me, lifting me up off of the counter so he’s the only thing holding me up. And he does hold me; he holds me so tight I’ll be surprised if I’m not bruised in the morning. His fingers dig into my hips as he lifts me up and then slams me back down, over and over again, until my pussy is spasming on his dick, and I’m filled with the heat of his cum.
And even once he’s done, he doesn’t put me down. He carries me up the stairs, into his bedroom, and then straight to the shower, where he cradles me in his arms and washes my hair and then my body, pretending not to notice when the tears return.
It rains on the day of Will’s funeral.
Which makes the day feel that much more surreal. I cry when I put on my dress and again when Dee does my makeup. I cry when we walk into the church and when they lower his casket into the grave. I cry when it’s all over, and the repast begins when everyone sheds their grief and brings out the smiles, trading memories over food brought by all the people Will helped keep alive.
I don’t have an appetite, but I stay in the kitchen, fixing plates with Dee and her mom, Emma, by my side.
“Don’t put that much,” Emma says, eyeing the large scoop of macaroni and cheese I’ve just dug out of the pan in front of me. “We’re going to run out.”
Dee stretches her eyes to silently admonish her mother for fussing at me. “Things are winding down, Ma. Most everybody has already come and gone.”
She’s right. The only people still here are her, Emma, Jayla, and Nate, who is out in the yard with Hunter. I glance out the window to see if they’re still in the backyard talking, and they are. Well, talking isn’t exactly the right word because things look far too tense for them to just be having a normal conversation.
“But what if they get hungry later?” Emma asks. “You haven’t eaten a bit of food today, Rae; you can’t send it all out the door.”
“I’m not hungry,” I say, turning my attention from what’s happening outside the window and back to the plate I’m fixing for Nate’s wife.
Emma’s disapproval is clear, but she doesn’t say anything more. She just continues to cover the dish in her hand with aluminum foil and puts it in the fridge. When she’s done, she comes over and wraps me up in a tight hug, kissing me on the cheek.
“I love you, baby girl.”
“I love you too, Em.”
“I’m going to go get Jayla,” she says, releasing me. “Dee, meet me at the car in five.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
When we’re alone, Dee gives me a sympathetic smile. “I can stay if you want me to.”
“No, I think I’ll be okay. I’m probably just going to spend the rest of the day in bed.”
“Okay.”
She gives easily, thinking I’m too fragile to be pushed. She’s probably right. I feel too fragile for most things right now, too fragile to be awake, too fragile to be upright, too fragile to be wondering what’s happening with Hunter and Nate in the backyard. All I want to do is sleep, and that’s what I will do when the last of our visitors go.
Dee helps me finish making the plates for Nate’s family and clean up the kitchen, and then she pulls me into a tight hug and presses a kiss to my forehead.
“Call me if you need me.”
“I will,” I promise her, waving goodbye as she walks out of the kitchen, leaving me to pack up the plates we fixed for Nate. I’m tying up the bag when he finally comes in to retrieve them.
“Heading out?”
“Yep,” Nate says, taking the bag of plates from me. “I just wanted to say goodbye.”
“Thank you for being here, Nate. I appreciate you.”
“Of course.” He scrubs a hand down his face, looking like he wants to say something but doesn’t know if he should. “I’m always here for you; you know that, right?”
My brows pull together as I try to suss out what his tone is about. “Yeah, I know that.”
“And I’m here for Hunter too,” he says, glancing out the window where Hunter is still visible. I look, too, and for a moment, we’re both quiet, watching Hunter pace.
I look away first, focusing on Nate because seeing the stress of the day settled on Hunter’s shoulders is painful for me. “I know you are. He knows it too.”
Nate raises his brows like he’s not so sure. “He hasn’t been to a meeting in months, Rae,” he blurts. “I know you’re both grieving, but he needs to get to one sooner rather than later, do you understand?”
There’s a severity to his tone that I don’t get. I mean, of course I know that going so long without the support found in meetings, and conversations with a sponsor, isn’t a good thing. But Nate is making it sound like Hunter is falling apart, and he’s not. He’s not falling apart. He can’t be because he’s the only thing holding me together.
“I understand, Nate.”
Something in his eyes tells me he doesn’t think I do, but just like everyone else, he chooses not to push, and when he’s gone, I breathe a sigh of relief, happy that silence has found me once again. I sit in that silence until Hunter comes in from the yard. He finds me in the living room, curled up on the couch in my funeral dress.
“You okay?” he asks, sitting down in the chair across from me.
“I’m fine. How are you?”
He slides down into his seat, resting his head on the cushion behind him and closing his eyes. “I’m tired.”
He’s tired a lot lately, which doesn’t make a lot of sense for him. Hunter is the most active, energetic person I know, so the number of times I’ve seen him dozing off and sleeping in over the past few days has been out of character for him. I haven’t minded it because I’ve enjoyed being still with him.
I sit up and go over to him, crawling into his lap. “Me too.”
He runs a hand down my back. “Let’s go to bed.”
The offer is enticing, but I think we’ve spent enough time in bed. I think Nate is right, and maybe we should start trying to get back into a routine. “Or, maybe you should go to a meeting.”
Hunter pops one eye open, his brow arched in offense. “What did you say?”
“I said you should probably go to a meeting. Nate said you haven’t been to one in months?—”
He sits up, and his rigid, defensive posture makes it impossible for me to stay comfortably on his lap, so I slide off, standing awkwardly in front of him while he glares at me.
“Why were you and Nate talking about me?”
“We weren’t talking about you. I mean, it wasn’t like that. He just brought it up, and I thought it could be good for you since it’s been so long.”
Hunter pushes to his feet and lets out a hollow laugh. “You’re right. It has been a long time since I’ve gone to a meeting because it’s hard to make meetings when you’re running back and forth to doctor’s appointments and pharmacies and making a thousand and one phone calls to insurance companies, trying to convince them to pay for medicine your friend needs to live. And you know what makes going to a meeting even harder, Rae?” It’s a rhetorical question because he doesn’t pause, doesn’t give me a chance to answer. “Knowing that if you do attend one and bring back a single germ it can lead to an infection that will kill the person you are trying so desperately to keep alive.”
My head rears back, and pain radiates through me, sharper and harsher with everything he lists off that he did for Will. That he did for me. The picture he paints is heartbreaking and familiar. Every sacrifice he made for Will and me is one that I made for my mother, but instead of the shared experience making us feel closer to one another, it feels like it’s ripping us apart. Creating a gap in our bond that’s filled with Hunter’s unspoken resentment and my guilt.
“I appreciate everything you did, Hunter,” I murmur, my voice dripping with shame.
God, why didn’t I just come home? Why couldn’t I just show up for Will, and for Hunter? Why couldn’t I be brave and selfless instead of cowering in New York like a helpless little girl?
“I don’t want your appreciation, Rae,” he says, agitation laced in every word as he marches into the kitchen and grabs his keys off the counter. I follow him, confused—not by his anger because I’m angry with myself too—but by the determined set of his jaw as he prepares to walk out on me.
He’s never walked out on me. He’s always been the person standing by my side, holding my hand, offering love and support. I look for any traces of that man in the one standing in front of me and come up empty.
“Then what do you want?”
Hunter rounds on me, clutching the keys in his hands with wild eyes. “I want you and Nate and everybody else to get off my back! That’s what I want. Is that too much to ask for?!”
He’s yelling now, and I’m standing there in shock, unable to remember a single time when Hunter has ever raised his voice at me. This night is filled with ugly, painful firsts that I don’t want with him.
“No.” My chin wobbles as he stalks toward the door. “What are you doing?” I ask, even though it’s clear. “Where are you going?” He remains silent as he places a hand on the doorknob, causing my heart to twist in on itself. Fresh tears have started to fall, but Hunter is unmoved. Maybe he doesn’t see them. Maybe he can’t see them through the haze of red he’s viewing me through. “Please don’t leave.”
My voice breaks on the last word, but it’s not enough to stop him. And the last thing I see before he walks out the door—leaving me alone with my grief, sadness and self-loathing—is his eyes that tell me he can’t grant my request because I’ve already asked him for too much.