Once I get all my fears off my chest, the tension knotted in my shoulders loosens and I can finally relax. My eyes close as bright sunlight pours down, warming my skin.
Sitting against my brother’s gravestone in the cemetery on such a gorgeous autumn afternoon feels wrong. The days I visit should be dark and gloomy, overcast with the threat of severe storms. Sometimes, I search through the upcoming forecast, trying to seek out the most miserable day.
It’s like a cosmic joke. No matter what I choose, it turns out to be gorgeous. Always sunny. Even in the dead of winter when everything should look bleak and desolate, the sun will throb in the blue sky and the untouched snow will look like it’s sparkling with diamonds. There are times when the tree branches ice over and shimmer in the light. It’s resentfully that I’ll admit how magical they look.
Nothing in a cemetery should be beautiful.
Even though Peter has been gone for a while, it’s still strange that life carried on without him. Wasn’t the world supposed to grind to a halt on its axis? Didn’t people realize that a vital part of our family had been cut off and removed?
Maybe we managed to pick up the shattered pieces and stumble on without him, but, in a way, we’re just like Humpty Dumpty. None of us will ever be put back together again. How is it possible to not fall completely apart when someone is ripped from your lives?
Peter’s death rocked the very foundation of our family. There were times when I didn’t think I could bear the loss. And my parents...
They were steeped so deeply in grief that it was difficult to witness. There is nothing worse than watching your mother and father—the very same people who are pillars of strength—sob like babies. There were times when I couldn’t remember what Mom’s face looked like without a constant river of tears flowing down her pale cheeks. Dad retreated quietly into his work. For the first couple of months, it almost seemed like we would splinter apart. Mom was the first to pull herself together before forcing Dad into counseling along with the four of us.
As painful as therapy was, I’m not sure we would have survived the ocean of grief that surrounded us without it. It’s all too easy to feel like you’re alone and drowning in the darkness.
Even though coming to the cemetery is a lot like picking at a healing scab and making the wound bleed all over again, there isn’t a choice in the matter. I refuse to forget about Peter. And talking to him, telling him about all the family gossip makes me feel like he’s still here, listening to every word. I can almost imagine his responses, and they make me laugh.
And that’s exactly how I want to remember him.
Laughing and full of life.
Chapter Five
Brayden
Harsh breath escapes from my lungs in a rush as I push open the front door and walk inside the house I share off-campus with four other guys. Almost immediately, voices assault my ears. There’s nothing uncommon about that. It would be strange if they didn’t. Five signatures might be on the rental agreement—Rowan, Carson, Asher, Easton, and yours truly—but at any given time, there’s at least a dozen people hanging out. Sometimes guys from the team crash at our place if they need to get away from the dorms or their roommates. There’s also usually a handful of die-hard groupies, looking for any lap to settle on.
I’ll fully admit that I took advantage of the pussy situation freshman year and delved straight in, sleeping with as many girls as possible. When you’re an eighteen-year-old guy and all these females are hanging on you, spreading their legs without the least bit of encouragement, it’s hard to say no.
Even after I stopped drinking, the girls remained a constant. But last year, something began to change, and I curtailed all the fucking around. That doesn’t mean I stopped dipping my wick completely, but it no longer held the same appeal as it once did. Now, I’m more discriminating. Plus, a dozen or so guys on the team tested positive for chlamydia because they all bang the same groupies. As much as I enjoy screwing, it’s not worth an STI. Not even a curable one.
“Hey Kendricks, take over for me,” Carson calls out, eyes laser focused on the game he’s playing. “I gotta take this call.”
I shake my head and point to the guy across from him. “Give it to Asher. I’m sweaty from my run.”
Carson’s gaze flickers to one of our roommates before he scowls. “No way, he’s shit at this game, and he’s totally baked.”
Asher grins. He can barely crack open his eyes. The guy could easily be blindfolded with dental floss. “He’s right, dude. I am sooo baked.”