— Chapter 29 —

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March 22nd.

Those two words alone were enough to make me numb for hours the next morning.

The sick feeling in my stomach wouldn't go away. Grief.

Grief and I had grown acquainted with each other many years ago. Grief was a constant. It had always followed me like a lost child, hiding behind me in the darkness of my shadow. It gripped tightly onto my hand. It was always there. Some days, grief would sit on my shoulders and weigh me down for hours. Other days it would scream and cry, lash out and sob, pull at my hair and remind me that nothing was okay.

Today was one of those days.

But it wasn't all grief. Shame and guilt were there, too. Shame, because I knew exactly the weight of what today would bring. Guilt, because I was going to go visit a place I hadn't been to in years—to see all that was left of someone I'd failed years ago.

It was a place I had no right to go to anymore.

I hadn't slept at all last night. I hadn't eaten. I'd barely managed to get myself dressed. Sometime after midnight, I might've even gone into a panic attack, but my exhausted memory was too foggy to remember for certain.

Every part of me had shut down. If it wasn't a part of me that was absolutely necessary for living, it wasn't working. I was entirely hollow.

Noah and I hadn't exchanged any words since the night before. I was frustrated with how we'd left things. I hadn't meant to snap at him—as usual, I'd somehow managed to say the exact opposite of what I really thought. I didn't want to leave it the way I'd had. Why could I never say what was on my mind? The words were always right on the tip of my tongue but they just felt stuck.

I didn't even want to think about James.

The water I'd forced myself up to shower in was ice-cold against my skin. My morning was spent doing the regular routines autonomously. The all-black clothes I'd pulled onto my body seemed perfectly representative of today's mood. The rain that had been pattering against the windows from the heavy clouds outside just felt exceptionally fitting.

Rock music had been playing loudly in Noah's bedroom before I left. Muffled from behind his closed door, my gaze lingered on it for a few moments as a shaky breath left my lips. I didn't want to bother him, though... there were things I wanted to apologize for. Maybe at another time.

Umbrella in hand, I'd gotten on a bus headed straight for the city. I watched the rain spilling down on Boston with my head against the window, having completely been ignoring phone calls and text messages.

The weather wasn't often like this in March—I used to love the rain as a child. Splashing in puddles, running in the wet, having myself soaked to the bone only to return home to the disappointed sigh of my mother.

Things were so simple back then.

I'd gone to the library. Maybe it had been a way of putting off the inevitable visit to my mother's grave—the guilt and the shame seemed to be pulling me back. I picked up her favorite book. With all the time she'd spent on bedrest before she died, she'd always had stacks of novels on her nightstand to keep her entertained. Wuthering Heights had always been her most treasured.

But the distraction didn't last long, and with my black umbrella in the air and the book in hand, I found myself walking down the streets of the city once more. It was cold out, nipping at my skin despite the heavy layers of clothing I'd packed onto my slim frame.

The cemetery was an hour's worth of a walk from the library, on a wet hill marked with grey headstones. It looked completely deserted.

I'd stopped at a flower stand before heading inside.

Pink tulips.

Mom had always loved pink tulips. We'd had them in our garden growing up, and under her care, they'd thrived. But the flowers had never been the same since she'd been gone. They hadn't been maintained with all the time she'd spent in hospital. The plant itself had died with her.

It couldn't have been earlier than four in the afternoon by the time I'd been able to find her headstone.

It wasn't as big as some of the others, marred around the edges with emerald moss and minor scrapes. The words were still etched in clearly enough to read.

Sylvia Maslow-Taylor

1960 - 2014

A devoted daughter, mother, and wife.

What a hurtfully simple and monotonous summation of her life.

Daughter. Mother. Wife.

As if she could be properly encapsulated in those three words. Her entire life lay before me—six feet beneath the ground, covered in dirt and isolated for the rest of eternity everlasting.

The small headstone could never truly honor just how beautiful my mother had been.

It could never tell in detail how much she'd had an impact on the people around her. It couldn't describe the smiles she put on people's faces with her cooking. It couldn't explain how much she sacrificed for her job, caring for the elderly at the old folks' home she'd helped to manage. It couldn't say in-depth the deep empathy she had for others, either. She never hesitated to lend money to the people around her who needed it, from her already thin paycheque, even if we'd been struggling ourselves. Her headstone could never depict just how much she adored nature or listening to me singing at her bedside, or how much she tried to dance despite the weakness in her knees.

She didn't deserve a fate like this.

I hugged my arms around my body. The umbrella hung loosely in the air beneath the ash-colored clouds staining the sky above me. The rain had begun to slow, soaking deep through the lush grass and softening the very dirt I was standing on—mud had stained the edges of my trainers.

When had I last stood in this spot?

I let out a shaky exhale, my grip at the base of her pink tulips growing weak by my side.

Not since she'd died.

Shame washed over me in a flood, choking the air in my throat. It was the drowning feeling again.

I didn't deserve to be here.

Not after how I'd left things.

Air-filled my lungs as I thought of something to say. I had the words, but I didn't know how I could confess them. It felt wrong. It was too late to come up with excuses now—to someone that could never be able to answer.

"Hi, Mom," I finally forced out. The words came out weak, no louder than a broken whisper. "I... I came back. I came to see you."

The silence that answered me back was deafening.

My umbrella fell to the grass as I lost strength in my arms. The rain was still flittering lightly in the atmosphere around me, hitting the skin on my cheeks and wetting the shoulders of my jacket. It wasn't as heavy anymore.

I murmured quietly. "I'm sorry it took me so long, I just... I—I can't. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I don't even know what I'm doing here."

I found myself slowly crouching down. Hugging my knees to my chest, I balanced on the balls of my feet and traced my gaze over the bold, cursive letters that marked the stone ahead of me.

"I guess I should start by telling you what's happened since you've been gone, huh?" I asked softly, tightly gripping the hems of my sleeves. "I... I don't know where to start."

I decided to keep speaking because I feared that the silence would overwhelm me if I didn't fight it with something.

"Dad's been... different. I know you two used to fight, but... he hasn't been the same. He used to hit me sometimes, but it was okay. I know he's just been upset. He doesn't know what to do anymore. He hasn't known what to do in a long time. He misses you, he just... doesn't know how to live his life without you around."

Rays of sunlight slowly began to shimmer down as the rain came to stop.

"I moved out of home," I mumbled. "I live in an apartment now, with a friend. He's nice, and he treats me well, but... I think I ruined things. You know, like I usually do." I paused to think for a moment. "He cooks well. Not as great as you did, but... he knows what he's doing. It's nice. And I got a job a few years ago—as a bartender, like I wanted. That's good, right?"

I wish I could hear your voice one more time.

I sighed. "James... he's back in Boston. He left a little bit after you did, and I know you always liked him, but... it hurts, Mom. It hurts so badly, and I just... I wish you were here. I want to hug you again. I want to hear your voice."

I don't want to be alone anymore.

My gaze traveled along the edges of her headstone, then down onto her earth beneath my feet—before I finally spotted something that I hadn't noticed earlier.

Is that—?

Someone had left a flower over her grave.

It was a single carnation. Honey-orange in color, it rested lengthwise before her memorial, a pop of color against the emerald grass and dark stone. Beads of rainwater dripped slowly from its petals.

At first, I got tense—my mind began jumping to conclusions. Had my father changed his mind? Had he felt some grief after all? Was it him who'd left the flower here?

The thoughts whirled in my mind before I finally came to my senses.

My father was allergic to flowers.

I stared at the carnation again, feeling the sick feeling growing in my stomach. My father could never help but break out into loud sneezes anywhere near flowers. He would never leave this here. I wasn't even entirely sure he'd come to visit Mom's grave in the first place, as sad as it was.

Carnations.

Carnations were James's favorite.

I picked up the flower and felt the heat stinging the whites of my eyes.

James had lived with my family for a few weeks after he had left home back in junior year. My mom had taken care of him like he were her own, but... surely she didn't matter to him enough for him to leave her a flower?

He'd been here.

God knew how long he'd been in Boston already. I'd only seen him once, and yet he'd already found a way to start turning my world upside down.

Why did he leave this here? I thought to myself, choking on air as my cheeks flushed with warmth. Why is he doing this?

Why is he back?

I turned my attention away from the carnation and looked back to the grave.

"I-I can't do this anymore, Mom," I cried out softly, though it only came out as a hushed whimper. Silent, barely able to be heard past the sound of the breeze.

And, for once, I let my tears fall.

But it didn't feel good. It just felt like water was dripping from my eyes—no meaning, no relief, just a sign that the pressure inside me had finally boiled over. These tears were forced. I simply couldn't hold them in anymore.

Crying doesn't help anything, I could hear James's voice echo at the back of my thoughts. You're better than this, Elliot.

"I'm s-sorry that... that I never came to see you," I cried, hoping that someway, somehow, the words would find her—wherever she was. "I'm sorry for being always being so weak. I'm sorry for failing you, and I... I know this isn't what you w-wanted for me. I just... I'm going to do better. I'll do better, Mom, I swear."

I swear.

After I gathered what was left of my broken soul, I gently rested the pink tulips against her headstone and wiped the moisture from my cheeks. Pain coursed through me while I wondered if Mom could hear my footsteps as I walked away from her grave.

Black umbrella and book in hand, I clutched the stem of James's flower tightly in my grasp.

My mother had always hated carnations.

Tonight's shift at Joe's felt agonizingly slow. Aside from a few quick customers, the place was mostly empty. It wasn't a long shift, though, which I'd been thankful for. I would never be able to understand why Pete refused to keep the place closed on Mondays.

The quarter-moon had been glowing brightly in with the stars in the distance when I finally returned home to the apartment building.

I could spot a figure sitting at our doorstep.

It wasn't until I'd climbed the stairs and reached our floor that I realized it was Noah.

He was sitting down against the front door, a cigarette smoking between his fingers as debris left his lips. He was dressed in ripped jeans, his black Docs, and a grey hoodie, with his leather jacket tied loosely around his waist. A black snapback covered his dark hair, shadowing his face beneath the yellow lightbulb above him.

Flicking through things on his phone, he adjusted his cap slightly as he took another inhale from his cigarette.

Noah finally noticed my presence when I approached. He didn't say any words.

I exhaled quietly and plopped myself down on the floor beside him, the orange carnation from earlier today beginning to wilt slightly in my hands. Noah's gaze didn't lift from me, smoke drifting from his lips. Even seated, he was an entire head taller than me.

For a few moments, neither of us spoke.

But as the silence began to make me grow uneasy, I managed to gather the courage to say something.

"I'm sorry for what I said."

Noah turned his phone off and glanced down at me.

"It was stupid. And immature," I continued, fidgeting from his attentive stare. "I shouldn't have made those kinds of assumptions about you. It was unfair, and... I'm really sorry."

Maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me, but I could've sworn a small smile had graced his lips after I spoke. Whatever it was, it was gone just as quickly as it came.

He took in my words and exhaled the fumes from his cigarette.

"I wasn't mad," Noah finally answered, leaning back slightly. "It wasn't that big of a deal. Any other person would've thought the same thing. So it's fine."

Relief washed over me, sweeping the weight off my shoulders as it did so.

"They shouldn't assume those things," I mumbled. "They don't know you. I don't even know you. So... thanks for correcting me."

He smiled as he replied, a gleam in his honey eyes.

"You got into your head again, didn't you?"

"I guess... maybe I did."

Silence filled the cold air again as Noah tilted his head down slightly, getting a better look at my face. Squinting his eyes for a brief moment while he analyzed me, I gave him a confused look.

"What's the matter?" He finally asked. "You don't seem like yourself."

My shoulders tensed a bit as I hugged my arms around my torso.

"N-Nothing. I'm fine."

"...You just lied. Again."

"I didn't."

"Yes, actually—you did."

"And what makes you think that?"

He shrugged, inhaling from his cigarette again before he spoke. "Your tell is too obvious. You're pretty terrible at lying."

A tell?

"What?" I frowned, pressing my brows together. "I don't have a—what the hell is it?"

Noah smiled.

"Well," he spoke, "telling you that would ruin it for me, wouldn't it?"

"I can lie perfectly fine, Noah."

"Like you did earlier?"

"Yes," I blurted, but I spotted my mistake quickly. "Wait, no, that's not what I—you tricked me."

"But you didn't lie that time."

I frowned. "Why would I lie about lying?"

"Why does anyone do anything?"

"This is confusing."

He chuckled, pinching the half-burnt cigarette between his lips as his cheeks hollowed for another inhale. Loosening my grip on the carnation in my hands, Noah spotted it and gave me a curious look.

He asked, "What's with the flower?"

I twirled the dark stem between two fingers. My lips pressed into a thin line, the breeze ruffling my hair slightly.

"Earlier," I began, "you asked why I don't seem like myself."

Noah didn't reply apart from a short nod. I sucked in a breath, tracing a melancholic gaze over the orange-toned petals of the flower blossom.

My voice emerged as a soft murmur.

"I went to see my mom's grave today."

It definitely wasn't what Noah had been expecting. I could see him shift a little at the revelation.

Perhaps it wasn't something I should've told him. My hands tightened slightly as I went over the weight of the words, feeling sick to my stomach.

Noah spoke in the midst of my silent shame.

"How did she...?" He began, only to slowly stop himself. But I knew what he wanted to ask.

I scratched the back of my neck and sighed.

"She used to get sick often," I muttered, answering him anyway. "A weak immune system—she'd get colds, infections, things like that. The doctors said she had a deficiency... I can't remember what of. The infections would come and go often, and they usually wouldn't be too bad, but... she had a habit of overworking herself. We tried for years with different doctors to try and help, but she just... never got better."

So she worked herself to death.

I stumbled a few syllables as my voice cracked in the back of my throat. Perhaps it was just luck that I'd finished speaking without breaking down altogether.

But it was almost like ripping off a bandaid. At first, the words stung my soul as I got them out into the open air. But then it got better.

It felt like something I needed to get off my chest. Noah's presence had been comforting, and I just... it was nice to have someone to listen to me for once. Someone who wouldn't judge me.

Noah didn't press me on continuing with the topic.

I was thankful—I'd already brushed up on the edge of too many hurtful sentiments tonight. Any more and I would break apart. Maybe this time for good.

"I'm sorry," he said softly.

My bottom lip quivered as my gaze fell to the floor.

"Yeah. Me too."

Noah adjusted the black cap on his head again and repositioned his legs, black Docs thudding slightly against the ground. He pulled the still-burning cigarette from his lips.

"Here," he decided, holding it out for me to take. "Looks like you need it more than I do."

I tilted my head.

He's... offering it to me?

"Are you sure?"

When he nodded, I slowly gave in and took the cigarette from him.

Holding it between two fingers as if it were muscle memory, I pressed my cold lips around the filter end and let the bitter smoke fill my lungs. It was strong stuff—almost viscid, in a sense, and terrible on the tongue. The scent of tobacco filled my nose as I inhaled. It lingered on my fingertips.

I let the toxic air sit in my lungs for a few seconds. Squinting my eyelids slightly as I handed the cigarette back to Noah, I finally got to my limit and allowed the smoke to clear out of my nose.

Noah looked... a little flabbergasted.

He blurted, "You smoke?"

An embarrassed look grew on my face as I shook my head. "A few packs back in high school, but I uh... I quit. Blunts were kinda more my thing, though, to be honest."

Noah shook his head, still in disbelief.

"I never would've guessed," he told me, finally crushing the butt of the cigarette on the ground beneath his leather boot. "Elliot-freaking-Taylor, a pothead."

"Ex-pothead."

He put his hands up in surrender as a laugh left his lips. Nudging my arm, he said, "Not such a saint after all then, huh?"

"Alright, alright," I said, "knock it off."

As his laughter came to a soft end, a gentle smile remained on his lips.