Page 84 of Never After Us
“Oh, look at him joking,” I tease, nodding toward the stereo because the mood is veering into quiet and broody, and I’m already holding on by a thread.“Why that song?”
He studies the sleeve of the tape for a moment, thumb brushing the edge like the answer might be hiding there.“It was in one of her albums—your aunt’s.We found it, I think, a couple of nights ago.”
He exhales, doesn’t quite meet my eyes.“There’s a sadness in it that doesn’t pull you under.It just ...stays.It keeps you company.Gives you room to feel everything without having to fix any of it.”
His voice drops—not low, but thoughtful, careful in a way that hits harder than volume ever could.“Some songs don’t erase grief.They make room for it—long enough for your mind to settle, long enough to take one more step.”
The words make my stomach tighten, and I hate the sting pressing behind my eyes.
He lifts his gaze.“Some songs don’t fix grief.They just hold space for you while you figure out how to keep going.”
The truth of it slips into me before I can guard against it.I blink, once, twice, trying to pretend my vision isn’t blurring.
“That’s—” I pause, unsure what to do with the emotion caught in my throat—“I really don’t know how to handle loss.”And the second I say it, I wish I hadn’t.
What am I doing?
Who volunteers emotional confession number forty-seven on a random night?
I clamp my mouth shut, immediately regretting every life choice that’s led to this moment.Maybe I need a vow of silence.Maybe Mila can help me make a chart.Days Without Oversharing: zero.
“Not grieving can become a problem,” Alec says, in the exact tone my mother used when warning me that chewing gum at bedtime would make my intestines stick together.
I raise an eyebrow.“Do you always lead with doom?”
He smirks faintly.“It was a suggestion.”
“Mmm, sounded like a diagnosis.”
He shrugs again, unbothered.“Suppressed grief finds its own way out.Usually sideways.That can’t be great for you ...or your kid.”
“Okay, Ari 2.0,” I mutter, sipping my tea even though it’s gone lukewarm.“Do you rehearse your emotionally invasive material ahead of time, or does it just come to you in the moment?”
“I improvise,” he says dryly.“It’s a gift.”
I roll my eyes.“Well, I’ll take it under advisement.”
“I’m not telling you what to do,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck again in that now-familiar way that makes my pulse skip.“It just came out.Been thinking a lot about losing your aunt lately.”
The shift in him is subtle but unmistakable—his tone is stripped of humor, the words carrying something quieter, heavier, like a door creaking open to a room he doesn’t show often.
“Dealing with her loss?”I ask, setting my cup down and—before I know it—leaning closer.“Were you two close?”
“Not really.But she mattered.To everyone here.”His voice goes quiet again.“And her loss ...it made me look at my own.I avoid people.A lot.It took me years to?—”
He stops.Mid-thought.
The air shifts—the way it always does when someone backs away from a truth they weren’t ready to give.
“Why did you stop?”I ask softly.
He shakes his head.“I’m sure you don’t want to hear all that.”
“It matters to you.”Before I can overthink it, I reach out and let my fingers brush against his—barely there, a soft graze, but it’s enough.
The contact zings through me like a live wire.He doesn’t move away.His hand stays right there, warm and grounded against mine, like letting himself feel.
“I care,” I say, quieter now.“Of course I do.”
