Delicate

by K. L. Cottrell

  “One time in the ninth grade, I was limping at school after a run-in with my dad. That was the time he blamed me for the milk being gone the day after he bought it. When I told him I’d seen my mom drop and spill the whole jug, he called me a liar and hit me. I tried to defend myself and ended up on the floor ‘cause I wasn’t actually quite big enough to defend myself yet. Fucked up my kneecap on the tile.”

  ‘Stay down, you piece of shit!’ he had thundered with livid eyes.

  I blink away that memory of pain, humiliation, and resentment so I can bring back the one that filled me with gratitude…and, frankly, amusement.

  Even now, a smile tugs at me.

  “Anyway, yeah, I was limping and some kid at school made fun of me for it, like, two or three different times. I tried to ignore it since I’d learned my lesson about fighting back, plus I didn’t wanna get in trouble and have my parents alerted. Just wanted to wait it out, you know. So at lunch, I sat down to hang out with Cliff, and the dude walked by our table with a fake limp and another little remark, but I went on minding my business.”

  Half of an actual chuckle escapes me.

  “Cliff had just then gotten a hamburger from the cafeteria, and I remember he spent the most meticulous minute dressing it up at our table. He put everything on there—every drop of mayo and ketchup and mustard, plus the whole side portion of lettuce and tomato and onion and pickles. I was sitting there wondering when he started liking raw onion and mayo on his burgers, but I didn’t say anything ‘cause…well, to tell the truth, I was waiting to laugh at him when he took a bite and spit it back out. But he didn’t do that after he finished fixing it up. He got up and went over to where the other dude was sitting with one of his friends, and he nailed him right in the face with that fully loaded burger.”

  Noelle gasps and bursts into giggles. “He did?”

  “Yep. Didn’t explain himself, either. Just hurled the burger at him as hard as he could and walked off.”

  My smile becomes a grin as the scene plays in my mind.

  And my eyes start stinging.

  “Did the guy get mad?” she asks.

  “Oh, yeah. He was really embarrassed. Didn’t do anything about it, though, other than yell a bunch of insults. Cliff didn’t have the kind of build anyone wanted to throw a punch at.” Even as the burn in my eyes worsens, I have to chuckle. “That dude had those condiments and vegetables all over him, Noelle. He was a mess, and a lot of people laughed at him.”

  We’re quiet for a few moments.

  She whispers, “Did that make him stop making fun of you? Being laughed at himself?”

  I swallow at the lump growing in my throat.

  My tears blur the sunlit room as I nod and whisper back, “Yeah, it did.”

  I recall my face burning from trying not to laugh and…God, from whatever is higher than gratitude. It hadn’t mattered one iota that there wasn’t some speech of friendship to go along with what Cliff did—in fact, he probably hadn’t mentioned me to the guy because he didn’t want us to face any guaranteed backlash. All I cared about was how damn good a friend he was to me. He’d wanted to defend me in some way, so he found that way and committed to it.

  I tell Noelle, “Cliff had to go get more food for himself after that. When he got back to our table, I thanked him and he said, ‘No problem. Hope he’s as good at showering as he is at being a bitch.’”

  We laugh together as heartily as we can without being too loud.

  Then she holds me tightly while I let myself grieve.

  I love that she’s here for me like this, as my closest friend and as the woman with whom I’ve traded hearts.

  Even on this day, it doesn’t feel weird to think about how she and Cliff traded hearts once upon a time too—it doesn’t seem wrong for our relationship to be so much deeper now than it was at this time last year, or on any of the other difficult days we’ve faced. It still feels like having the safest place in which to hide and share and mourn and appreciate.

  At length, she sniffles and says thickly, “He was funny.”

  I press my wet cheek to her hair. “Yeah, he was.”

  ‘Was.’

  I don’t even know how many times I’ve relived the night he died. How many times I’ve relived him being with us one minute and being gone the next. Laughing and blithe and then, minutes later, motionless and covered in blood.

  It’s still so hard to fathom how it happened.

  No matter how much time has passed since then, no matter what I’ve gotten up to, no matter how many laughs I’ve had, it’s always so hard to wrap my mind around how suddenly death interrupted our lives. It interrupts everyone’s lives in the blink of an eye, even if a person doesn’t die that quickly—maybe they do, or maybe they receive a terrible medical diagnosis, or maybe they hear news that someone they know has passed away.

  It makes sense that it’s hard to wrap one’s mind around that moment when it comes, and of course it’s hard to get used to right afterward. But even now, two years after the moment came and took Cliff with it, I remember how it felt for him to be living and then…not. Just like that.

  What a terrifying thing.

  What a miraculous thing that the same hasn’t happened to me or Noelle or Theodora. We’ve been blessed with more time.

  It’s also terrifying—and heartbreaking—to acknowledge that we don’t have any idea how much more time we’ll get. But more than anything, it’s motivating. It’s one of the reasons I wasn’t shy the other night about telling Noelle exactly what I want for us. The fragile, fleeting nature of life should put fear in one hand and ambition in the other. Maybe she and I can’t jump right into all those things I mentioned, but it means a lot that they got put out there, that they were admitted, that I didn’t refuse to share them like they were some secret.

  After a minute, thinking about this has me wondering something that puts a twist in my stomach.

  She’s still my safest place on this day, but….

  I shift until I can kiss her hair. “Ellie?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You aren’t scared to remember your own times with Cliff, are you? I mean, to remember them out loud with me? Because you were together and…now we’re together?”

  Am I still her safest place too?

  She inhales slowly, then starts moving around. My eyes are mostly dry by now, so I have no trouble seeing hers clearly when she sits up enough to look at me, her dark brown hair a pretty mess around her face. I can see she was tearful before, but now? Her eyes are only soft.

  And, as quiet seconds tick by with that gaze roving over my face, more and more adoring.

  I will never get tired of her looking at me like this.

  That look aside, a frown creases her brow when she says, “It’s strange, but….”

  She grazes some of her fingers down my side, pleasing my nerve endings even through my shirt. The twisting feeling in my stomach eases up, leaving room for me to want to lightly twist some of her hair around two of my own fingers. I do it, and it makes her sigh with contentment.

  “I don’t even know if I can explain it right,” she goes on. “He and I were never only friends, so all the memories I have of him are tied to our relationship in one way or another, including the ones that you were in with us. So if I reminisce with you about funny or sweet times I shared with him—whether you were there, too, or not—there’s no way to forget that I loved him back then.”

  I nod lightly. “That’s what I was trying to ask about. I spent years alongside the two of you, watching your relationship grow. I understand that so much is there, you know? It won’t offend me for you to bring up anything you wanna bring up. You’ll never be unable to talk to me about whatever is on your mind.”

  Abruptly, she’s near tears again.

  She rushes to stroke affectionately at my cheek.

  “Oh, Beck, I know,” she whispers. “I know I always, always have you.”

  That moves me too.

  “So I want you
to know I’m not scared. I’ll never be scared of you. You’re home to me. The thing that feels strange—the thing I’m experiencing right now that I’ve never experienced before—is thinking back on loving him and not having unbearable pain in my chest. I miss him and I treasure everything he gave me and I always will, but none of it takes up the same space in me that it did before. I’m not lying here with you and thinking about old times with him and feeling like I can’t tell you about them because it might be awkward. There isn’t any…fuel for awkwardness in my memories, because the way I felt about him is from a different time, not from our time. There are two versions of me and—and one of them is in a memory archive or something. Her life will always mean a lot to me, but its colors aren’t as vivid as the ones I live in now.”

  The tears have built up in her eyes. She curls her fingers to my cheek.

  “Do you know what I mean, Beckett? Do you understand that how much I love you hasn’t been put on hold or made me uncomfortable because of what today is?”

  I can’t even pick out the point at which she fully assuaged my worry. All I know is it happened.

  As I cover her hand with mine, I’m a maelstrom of heartache and joy. A new knot has formed in my throat, and it gets bigger when ‘how much I love you’ echoes in my head.

  “Yeah, I understand,” I murmur to her. “I felt every word of that.”

  Letting out a shaky breath, she nods. Teardrops spill down her cheeks, and I lift my hands to wipe them dry.

  She leans into one of my palms and gazes at me with blue tenderness that whispers and bellows and electrifies and settles all at once.

  It’s a look of unabashed love.

  I swear she wants to tell me she loves me, outright, not in the dance-around way she did moments ago.

  God, I want to hear it—want to say it back to her.

  But even with how our conversation has gone, I’m not sure it’s the right time. The way we feel about each other doesn’t change that this is a day of remembering the tragic death of a fiancé and a brother.

  I think she thinks that too.

  For a time, we go on looking at each other while I rub my thumb back and forth over her cheek, taking care of another couple tears that escape.

  Then I whisper, “I’m still so sorry for your loss.”

  She closes her eyes. “I’m forever sorry for yours.”

  After another moment, she takes a slow breath and looks at me again. A new intensity comes into her eyes.

  “You saved him, too, you know,” she says. “You inspired him and showed him true friendship and—” her voice cracks, “—and he loved you so much for that. I don’t know if he ever told you, but he told me. You were a lifesaver for him just as much as he was one for you.”

  What?

  Her words are utterly unexpected—and, as I hold her serious gaze, the compliment in them grips me so hard it hurts.

  I….

  She said I saved him.

  Of course I always knew Cliff and I were a team and that I truly mattered to him. It was always so clear; the truth of it was impossible to miss. Our friendship was the most solid thing in the world. But no, I’m not sure he ever told me it was the most solid thing to him as well—not in the way Noelle just has. In tons of small ways, absolutely, but….

  “I don’t remember it,” I tell her weakly. “And I—I wouldn’t have forgotten him saying something like that to me.”

  He told her I inspired him? Me?

  She smiles at me through our freshly-building tears. “Well, I’m sorry you didn’t hear it sooner, but it’s true. You made his life better, and he was grateful for that.”

  I can’t not feel that as deeply as I have felt everything else swirling around us right now.

  I can’t not believe her—and, further, him.

  And as she settles back down against my side, I can’t keep my composure about it all.

  There’s no shame in it, though, I know. Not on this day. Not on any other.

  Feeling your feelings isn’t weak or wrong. They’re with you for a reason.

  Especially grief.

  Grieving now means you had something good before.

  There’s a cold shadow to every warm slant of light. There’s a fall to every rise. You can’t have the joy of love without the pain of loss; there’s no loophole in that contract.

  And I’m glad to have loved even though I also lost.

  I don’t wish I could undo knowing Cliff just so I wouldn’t have to know this heartache.

  He was worth it.

  —

  “Uncle Beck?”

  I finish yawning, then look to where Theo sits beside me at the kitchen table. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “How come you’re not eating your pancakes?”

  Picking up my coffee cup, I study the cute bun her hair got pulled up into so syrup wouldn’t get in it. Then I look her in the eyes, which are attentive on me as she smacks the bite of pancake she just took for herself.

  I tip a little smile at her. “Well, firstly, remember to chew with your mouth closed.”

  She promptly does it, but she still looks at me, waiting for an answer.

  It’s true: Noelle and I made pancakes and bacon after we got ourselves and Theo out of bed, but once I sat down with my plate, my appetite faded. Taking a couple bites is all I’ve managed.

  “Secondly,” I sigh, “I thought I was hungry, but….”

  “But you’re not?”

  “Not very, no.”

  “Does your tummy hurt? When my tummy hurts, I don’t feel hungry.”

  Such a cutie.

  A chuckle escapes me.

  I glance across the table to Noelle, whose plate is clear only because she didn’t bother with pancakes at all, just some bacon. She’s pensively watching her daughter; her hair is up in a precautionary bun, too, and her elbow is on the table, allowing her to rest her chin in that hand.

  Once my attention is back on Theo, I let out a measured breath. Noelle and I already talked about how we should treat the topic of Cliff. We hadn’t been sure of whether we should lay the whole truth of the day on Theo—is it necessary at her age?—but we don’t want to completely lie to her.

  So I say simply, softly, “No, my tummy doesn’t hurt. I just miss your dad extra today, so I’m sad.”

  “Oh.”

  I nod—and blink at how she’s scrambling over to me.

  She doesn’t climb into my lap to be held, though. She wraps me up in the biggest hug she can manage.

  I am instantly on the edge of being a watery mess of a man again.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” I say weakly, wrapping my arms around her too. “Thank you so much. How did you know I needed a hug from you?”

  “Because you’re sad, but you love me, so a hug will make you feel better.”

  Yeah, that gets me.

  What did I ever do to deserve the blessing that she is?

  She smacks a rather sticky kiss on my arm, but I don’t have it in me to care. Then she slips away from me and hurries around the table to Noelle, who is also turning into a watery mess again.

  “Are you sad, too, Mommy? Do you need a hug?”

  “I always need a hug from you,” Noelle wavers out as they embrace. “Don’t ever forget that your hugs make our hearts happy because we love you bigger than anything else that exists.”

  “Okay,” Theo says easily.

  Did I mention how cute she is?

  I rub at the wet corners of my eyes.

  Noelle sniffles. “And yes, I’m sad too.” After a beat, she sighs, and I catch the ghost of a smile on her face. “I do feel better now, though. You helped me.”

  “Good. And I helped Uncle Beck, and now he can eat his pancakes.”

  Once again, I can’t keep in a little laugh.

  Noelle’s smile grows. “Super Theodora.”

  “Yep,” I agree.

  Theo titters, pulls out of their hug, and goes back to her chair.

  As she picks up her fork, she sa
ys, “We are a super family.”

  “Sure are,” Noelle murmurs.

  I nod.

  Theo does, too, and adds, “I’m not sad today. But when I do get sad because I miss my daddy, then I will feel better with hugs from Mommy and Uncle Beck.”

  “Yeah,” I say gently, “we’re always here for you. We still have each other.”

  She nods again. “Yep, you’re always here for me and we still have each other.”

  It’s pretty common for her to echo things she hears, but that fact doesn’t make this instance any less special to me.

  Noelle muses, “I think I’ll have a pancake after all,” and I believe she really is better just like I am.

  I flick a look over to her. She catches it, and the look she gives back to me feels like a stroke of her thumb over my cheek.

  “Me too,” I decide.

  A gasp has us quickly looking at Theo again—and finding her looking down at her lap with her pancake-less fork in her hand.

  “Oops,” she says.

  There may not be any syrup in her hair, but there’s syrup somewhere over there.

  Man, she really does have superpowers, and one of them is amusing the hell out of me no matter what state of mind I’m in.

  —

  What a lazy day the three of us have together.

  It still manages to be tiring, thanks to what weighs on Noelle and me. Usually, our lazy days still involve looking presentable, going at least one place outside the house, doing light chores, and playing around inside the house. Today, we stay in pajamas, lounge in the living room, and watch a ton of TV. We don’t want to have anything to do with our cars, so we take our time thinking of what kind of pizza we can have delivered later; we’re in agreement against olives, for sure.

  Theo hangs in there with us. When she gets bored of whatever we’re watching, she chooses to do other things nearby—color, play with toys, style our hair.

  These hours feel good. Comforting. Like one long hug.

  Once again, the three of us being together is healing.

  And just like earlier this morning, it makes me and Noelle happy-sad to do more reminiscing about Cliff. We talk about shared times with him—there had been so many awesome and stupid and crazy and funny times.