Page 35 of Brother in Law with Benefits

Sophie:That's great. Tell her I'm thinking about her.

Me:You could tell her yourself. She misses you.

The three dots appear, disappear, appear.

Sophie:Working all weekend. Long shifts. I'll come by Monday.

Me:Okay.

Sophie:How are you doing?

The question catches me. I type and delete three responses.

Me:Figuring it out.

Sophie:That's honest.

Me:I'm trying to be.

Sophie:Good. That's good.

The dots appear. Stay for almost a minute.

Sophie:I miss you.

Me:I miss you too.

Sophie:I still need space. Is that okay?

No. It's not okay. I want to see her. I want to talk to her. I want to make this decision standing next to her instead of alone in a garage that smells like WD-40 and my father's absence.

But she needs space and I need to give it.

Me:Yeah. Take what you need.

She doesn't text again.

I sit in Dad's garage with his tools arranged around me — the level he used for twenty years, the circular saw he called by name, the workbench he built out of oak because he said particle board was an insult to anyone serious — and try to figure out what being sure actually requires. I think, unhelpfully, about Chris — about the version of this decision where I'm not the only Guilligan brother whose life this rearranges. I don't have an answer for that part yet either. I put it in the same drawer as everything else I'm not ready to open.

***

Sunday, I go to the cemetery.

I don't plan it. I just find myself driving north, and then I'm pulling into the lot near the maintenance shed, and I sit in my truck for ten minutes before I get out.

I haven't been here since I came home. The photo Mom sent me after the funeral showed the headstone from a distance, grey granite in a green field. I memorized the section and row and then didn't come.

Section B, Row 7. Near the old oak.

The grass is damp. My boots leave prints.

DAVID LAWRENCE GUILLIGAN 1955 — 2022 Beloved Husband, Father, Friend

Simple. Practical. No flourishes. Like the man himself. Mom's name is already carved next to his with just the birth year — 1958 — and the blank space where the date will go. They planned it together. Made it easy for whoever was left behind.

That should've been me, standing here. Making it easier for her.

I sit down on the grass, right in front of the stone.