"I disagree." He takes my shoes with one hand and holds me close with the other. "You're celebrating life. Death is just another part of that cycle." His eyes find mine. "You know that tattoo on my chest."
"I'd love to be reminded."
He pulls his t-shirt down, exposing his gorgeous, perfect pectoral muscles. There it is—be brave, live—in thick black letters.
"I always that it was a little new age for you," I say.
"It's a recovery thing. A reminder to experience life instead of trying to numb myself to anything that might hurt."
It's a nice sentiment, but I don't see how it's relevant to the discussion at hand. If there's even a discussion. This is more like show and tell. Miles shows, and Miles tells, and I can take it or leave it.
He studies my reaction. Runs his fingers over my cheek to my chin, tilting me so we're eye to eye. Those blue eyes of his are so damn earnest.
"I know you hate when people are cryptic," he says.
"Accurate."
"But give me a minute." He brings his hand to my lower back and leads me down another row.
We walk for a few more moments and Miles stops in front of a plain gray tombstone. Damon Webb. Father, Uncle, Friend. He died last year, just like Miles said.
"He adopted me legally after my mom died. I took his name instead of my dad's," Miles explains. He sets my shoes on the ground, turns to face me, and takes my hands. "The quote. It's cheesy. But it was something my uncle always said when I started causing trouble. He saw right through my bullshit. When I got suspended for getting into a fight, he'd sit me down on that leather couch and toss a bag of frozen peas in my hands. Then he'd kneel next to me, stare into my eyes, and he'd tell me that if I wanted to run, I'd be running forever."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, he was a smart guy. Self-made fortune, knew all the business stuff that bored me to tears. He knew how I felt losing my mom, especially to suicide. It hurt him, too. He was angry, too. But I got into fights every week. I got suspended fifteen times. I broke all my guitars."
I suck in a deep breath. I want to trust Miles but I'm not sure I'm ready to let my guard down again. Not yet.
Still, we were friends, or something close to that. I want to be there for him right now. Maybe not tomorrow, or next week, but right now.
He squeezes my hands. "After my twentieth fight, we made a deal. He'd buy me one more guitar if I agreed to be brave and confront how much it hurt to lose my mom. I could wail on that guitar all day. I could scream my lungs out, write a song that was nothing but 'Fuck Simon.' That was my father's name. But if I got in trouble, even one more time, that was it. I was going to boarding school."
"And?"
"And that was it. I wrote a song about it. I felt a little better. Every time I wanted to hit someone, I wrote a song instead."
I hug my chest. "How did you start doing drugs?"
"It wasn't a problem at first. Or at least I didn't think it was. I liked the way it relaxed me. Made me calm. Made me feel like I didn't have to take on the world. But it became a habit. Tom confronted me. I slowed down enough that I could hide it. But when Damon got cancer… I freaked. Ran from it. I couldn't go five minutes sober. Couldn't deal with those thoughts." He rubs my shoulders. "That's how I know you're strong, Meg. You confront your pain headfirst. You never come close to buckling."
"I can't say that anyone has ever complimented me for not doing drugs before." I laugh.
"I really do love your laugh."
"I love yours too." I really do.
He shifts back to the serious tone. "I only stopped because Tom threatened to kick me out of the band, and I didn't want my uncle to die thinking I was that same stupid kid who kept running away."
My heart pounds against my chest. Miles went through so much.
Be brave, live.
This isn't the kind of pain that goes away with a few hugs and kisses. I can't take away his. He can't take away mine. We're both stuck until we find our way out.
He lowers his voice to a whisper. "I was in rehab when he died. That was the part that hurt the most, that he was alone because I was kept stewing in self-pity."
"But you weren't stewing anymore. You were confronting it head on."