We Were Together

PROLOGUE

THEN

NICKY – Age 8

The box containing my mother’s body silently taunts me from the front of the room. I attempt to avoid it, continuously moving around in search of a distraction before settling into an empty row of chairs along the back wall. I pick the one at the end—the farthest corner of the room.

There’s currently enough space between me and my father that no one feels the need to engage with me, and I’m thankful to get a break from the exaggerated show of fake sympathy. None of these people actually care about me, and I’ve had just about all I can take of awkward hugs from people who want to win points with my dad by pretending to comfort me.

I continue to scan the space around me, taking in the various wreaths, bows, and twinkling lights hung about in preparation for the upcoming holidays. I didn’t know funeral homes decorated for Christmas—I guess I never really had a reason to think about it before now—and I know don’t have the best understanding of social norms, but it almost comes across as a cruel joke.

Hey, your mom’s dead! And in case you forgot, here’s a reminder she won’t be with you on Christmas morning!

I don’t know, no one else seems put off by it so maybe I’m reading it wrong. Wouldn’t be the first time.

My attempt to hide away does little to calm my nerves. I still have a clear shot of the casket—the one she’ll be buried in in just a few short hours. It’s ornate, covered in decorative floral carvings. Elegant, but it doesn’t suit her. She’d be annoyed knowing my father spent that kind of money on something she’d consider so impractical.

Money’s never been an issue for my family, but my mom was never one for flaunting it. Overall, we’ve always been a pretty down-to-earth bunch, which is ironic considering the crowd we’re currently surrounded by. I recognize several of the faces here today, seizing the opportunity to use her wake as a networking opportunity rather than a period of mourning.

When you have the kind of money my family does, you’re subjected to a certain level of moral depravity. My parents did their best to shield me from it, but business dealings alone meant we couldn’t block it out entirely. Sometimes rich people just have to interact with other rich people. And a lesson I learned early on? Most rich people are jerks. In that sense, maybe I’m the perfect fit for this world—one where nonsense such as empathy has no place.

In case you haven’t picked up on it by now, I’m not like other children. When you’re telling time by age two and independently reading Harry Potter at four, it’s a safe assumption that something’s a bit off. The summer before I started kindergarten, my parents finally had me tested and, lo and behold, my mother’s suspicions were confirmed. With a whopping 143 IQ, I am officially considered a genius.

My mother always said she knew early on I was special, but I know what she really meant.

Disconnected, withdrawn… odd.

I have feelings. I just don’t allow myself to be controlled by them. Emotions make you irrational.

Aside from riding dirt bikes—which my father’s had me on since I was three—little gets me anywhere close to what I’d consider happy. Even still, that’s simply an adrenaline rush. A surge of epinephrine and dopamine flooding my system, creating feelings of so-called excitement. A chemical reaction eliciting a desirable response.

I took to motocross pretty quickly, one of the main draws being that when you’re on the track, you aren’t relying on the efforts of others. Unlike sports like baseball or football, I don’t need to play nice with others to achieve success.

People? I can take them or leave them—preferably leave them. If I had it my way, I wouldn’t bother with them at all. But my mother refused to allow it.

Last year, my father suggested pulling me from school and hiring private tutors since I’m so much more advanced than kids my age. Mom wouldn’t even entertain the idea. She desperately wanted me to find happiness in things… to connect with others.

But she’s gone now.

My mother was too good for this world. Joy personified, she was beautiful inside and out. From Sunday morning pancakes to Taylor Swift singalongs in the laundry room, she was the glue that held us together. She loved big, hard, and unapologetically, and wanted nothing more than to grow old with my dad.

The women here are her polar opposites. They parade about, showcasing their manufactured bodies that have been tucked, tightened, and suctioned into skintight black dresses. They approach my father, who continues to stand guard at my mother’s side, their presence never registering. He remains unmoving, staring down at her as though he’s trying to will her back to life.

My father’s been on autopilot since she died. The almighty Mitch Conners—self-made business powerhouse who built his recreational vehicle empire from the ground up—reduced to nothing more than a shell of his former self.

My mom’s cancer didn’t just eat away at her. In the eight months between her diagnosis and the day she died, it consumed my father as well, destroying him piece by piece until the day she took her final breath. Small cell carcinoma killed her ten days ago, but I lost both parents that day.

Another Barbie lookalike approaches my father, her fingers gripping his arm under the guise of offering sympathy. I start to feel lightheaded, acutely aware of the sweat beading at my forehead and the nape of my neck. The low murmurs circulating the room mute entirely, leaving only the sound of my own heart pounding in my ears.

No. No. No.

This isn’t my first panic attack. They’ve been a common occurrence in my life, especially before my mother helped teach me to control them. However, this is the first one I’ve had since she died. I’m surprised I made it this long without one, and a small part of me foolishly hoped maybe I’d finally kicked them entirely. But no, unlike my mom, they’re alive and well, and this one’s gearing up to be a monster. My brain blanks out, and it’s suddenly as though everything she taught me flies out the window.

I’m gonna pass out. Bile rises in my throat as I sink further into the chair, hoping the people around me are actually as self-absorbed as I believe them to be and don’t notice.

My fingers curl around the edge of my seat in desperation as I pray to a God I’m fairly certain doesn’t even exist, silently pleading with him to take pity on me if he does. The thought of one of these leeches having a front row seat to my mental check-out only amplifies my anxiety, sending me into a rapid spiral.

Count it down for me, Nicky. I manage to pull my mother’s words to the forefront of my mind.

I inhale deep, collecting myself enough to run through the grounding exercise my mom taught me for moments like this. You can use any of the five senses, but the format is always the same—three, two, one.

Three things I can see: The hideous floral wallpaper that suffocates the room like a poorly wrapped Christmas present. The massively oversized maroon and cream area rug that sprawls throughout the space, its frayed edges bearing obvious signs of wear and tear. My reflection staring back at me in the shine of my polished black dress shoes.

Two things I can smell: A nauseating mixture of overpriced cologne and perfume. The distinct stench of some kind of chemical cleaner. If I breathe in too deeply, I can practically taste the bleach.

One thing I can hear…

“You okay?” A small voice breaks through my thoughts.

I jump, tightening my grip on the seat cushion to anchor my body while drawing my attention to a little girl suddenly standing beside me. I stare blankly at her for a moment, unblinking as wide green eyes stare right back at me. Glancing around in confusion, I confirm she is, in fact, talking to me. “What?”

“I said—” She places her hands on her hips. “—are you okay?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“That’s rude.” She hops up onto the chair beside me, smoothing the fabric of her dark grey dress over her lap. Once satisfied with her efforts, she looks to me again expectantly.

“Are you lost?’

“No.” She shakes her head, sending her long reddish-brown hair swishing about her face. “I know where I am.”

“Okay…well, then do you need to go find your parents?”

“Nope.” She pops the P. Glancing down at her feet, she watches as she swings them freely out in front of her. “I know where they are.”

“Right…” I allow my gaze to drift about the room, hoping that if I ignore her, she’ll just leave. It’s a successful tactic I’ve used with others before. However, when several minutes pass with no such luck, I resort to more direct measures. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to be left alone.”

“Because your mommy’s dead?”

My head snaps to her attention. “Who do you think you are?”

She looks to me, her bright innocent eyes almost comically large for her face. “I’m Daphne.”

“Wh—? No, I mean why would you say that?”

“Why not?” She leans toward me, her face bearing a look of genuine intrigue.

“Well…” Why not? Good question. I do want to be left alone because my mom’s dead. It was a pretty straightforward question. I just intensely dislike the sensation it elicits inside me. Feeling the need to defend my reaction, I respond, “Because it’s not appropriate.”

Daphne’s brows draw together, forming a tiny crease at the center. “I don’t know what that means. I promise I’m smart. I should be in kindergarten, but mommy forgot to sign me up, so I’m still with all the four and five-year-olds in pre-k.” She wrinkles her nose in distaste.

I get it. Being in a class with people my age is mind-numbingly boring. I couldn’t imagine being stuck in a room of kids younger than me.

“Not appropriate means…” I take a moment to consider the best way to phrase so she’ll understand. “It’s not okay to do. It’s… bad.” Probably the quickest way to get my point across. Even pre-k knows the difference between good and bad, right?

“Like how lying is bad?”

“Yes!” I declare. Ha. See? I can relate to other kids when I try. “Just like that. Lying is bad.”

Daphne seems to ponder this for a moment. “Is everyone here for your mommy?”

“Yes.”

“Is she in that box up there?”

I don’t bother glancing toward the front of the room when I answer. “Yes.”

“So, she is dead?”

“Yes, but—”

“That’s not lying then,” she says, cutting me off, and resuming the steady sway of her feet beneath her. “That’s just you not liking what I said.”

Someone drops something in the other room, the unexpected thud drawing her attention toward the door. I, however, suddenly can’t seem to look away.

“How old did you say you are?”

She spins back to face me, her hair whipping me in the face. Strawberries. She smells like strawberries. The scent floods my nose, suddenly making the air more tolerable.

“I turned six on Saturday.” Daphne smiles proudly, sitting up a little straighter. I don’t know why, but the sight has the corners of my mouth twitching upward. “I wanted a unicorn, but my mommy said no and said I have to stop asking for ree-di-clus stuff.” She slowly stumbles over the word. “I don’t think unicorns are reediclus. I think they’re magic.” Her eyes sparkle at the mention of the mythical creature.

I want to point out that unicorns aren’t actually real, but for the first time in my life, I bite my tongue. If anything, I find myself thoroughly annoyed with her mother. If I’d asked my mom for a unicorn, she would have hired a herd of horses to parade through our backyard with faux horns taped to their heads. Her mom’s first instinct was to shame her? That’s rich, coming from the grown adult who forgot to register her kid for kindergarten.

“Just think,” she continues, “if you had a unicorn, you could tell him your wishes. And if you’re really good, he’ll keep them safe for you until they come true.”

“What would you wish for?”

“I can’t tell you! Then they won’t come true. I have to keep them secret.”

“Are you even able to keep a secret, given how much you talk?” I chuckle, but it quickly dies in my throat when I notice her visibly deflate.

“Mommy says I talk too much. I’m supposed to practice being quiet.”

An unknown sensation tugs at my chest, and my feelings surrounding Daphne’s mother quickly shift from annoyance to genuine dislike.

“Hey, no. I’m… I’m sorry.” I raise my hand, awkwardly hovering it just above her shoulder before making contact in an attempt to comfort her. She looks up at me, and even though her eyes shine with unshed tears, she forces a smile. I absentmindedly rub at the center of my chest, the previous feeling of unease slowly morphing to one of radiating warmth. “I’m Daniel, by the way. But my mom calls me Nicky.”

Her smile widens a little further, exposing two perfectly symmetrical dimples in her cheeks. “Hi, Nicky,” she whispers.

“Daphne!” a voice snaps from several feet away.

She pops up from her seat, back ramrod straight, and the sight has an overwhelming urge to protect this little girl surging within me. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, but I move to stand, prepared to position myself in front of her. However, before I’m able to intervene, Daphne turns to face me. She reaches forward to take hold of my hand, and I surprisingly don’t flinch away.

“Daphne Guinevere Burke,” her mother hisses in warning. “Now, young lady!”

Daphne glances back at her, her small hand tightening around my own, before her big green eyes lock with mine a final time. “I’m sorry about your mommy, Nicky.”

She’s probably the hundredth person to offer me condolences today, but hers is without a doubt the first to be genuine.

Daphne delivers a final squeeze before releasing me to scamper off toward the scowling woman at the door. Her mother snatches her hand as soon as she’s in arms’ reach, and before I’m able to crane my neck to catch one more glimpse, she’s gone.