Say You'll Remember Me(78)

I huffed a mirthless laugh.

I stood there staring at the Christmas tree in the corner of the living room. All the heirloom family ornaments that Grandma always packed up on January 1, hanging on the tree where she put them. There were piles of presents sitting there. Some were for her. She’d made tamales. It would be the last time we’d eat them.

“We didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye,” I said, quietly. “She was here and then she wasn’t. And now I’m never going to see her again.”

He was looking at me gently.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

He put his hands on my arms. “Sorry for what?” he asked.

“Everything? That the cabin trip is canceled, that my family is a hot mess, that you probably had to sell a kidney to get here.”

“I don’t want you thinking about that right now.”

“I should have fed her. I should have taken care of her too.”

“It’s a stressful time. You’re all going to miss things, everyone is. You need to give yourself grace.” He tipped my head up with a hand on my chin. “Do you need anything? What can I do for you?”

His eyes were red. He looked more tired than the last time I saw him, if that were even possible. He’d lost weight too. Maybe muscle? I know he doesn’t have a lot of time to go to the gym these days. But he was here. He was making breakfast for everyone and asking me if I was okay. And the fact that he was here did make me a little okay.

“My head hurts,” I said, rubbing my temple.

“Do you want some Advil?” he asked.

“No. I took some in the middle of the night, I don’t think it’s been long enoug—” I froze. “No…” I breathed.

“What?”

A foggy, grief-riddled recollection had just drifted to the surface of my brain. A melatonin-soaked flashback.

I looked up at him in horror.

“Oh God, no. No, no, NO!”

Then I bolted out the front door and ran down the driveway back to my apartment.

Please. Please let it still be there. Please let this be some horrible fever dream that didn’t actually happen. I burst into my studio and ran for my bed.

On the nightstand next to the lava lamp was a single Advil PM and a single, lone earbud.

“Nooooooo!”

“What happened?” Xavier said from behind me.

I turned slowly. “I swallowed my earbud.”

He blinked at me. “You what?”

“It was dark and I was drugged up on sleep aids and my head hurt so much and I thought it felt a little weird going down but—XAVIER! Stop laughing!”

He was cracking up. My usually very reserved, very contained boyfriend was laughing.

“This isn’t funny!” I said, starting to laugh a little too.

“It is the tiniest bit funny,” he said.

“Am I going to need surgery?” I looked at him, despondent.

He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

“How’s it going to come out?”

“The way that most things come out.”

I groaned pathetically and he gathered me into a hug.

“God, this day is a fucking nightmare,” I muttered.

“And now you can’t even watch cat videos in surround sound.”

I snorted and he squeezed me tighter.

“You will be fine,” he said, chuckling.

“You promise?”

“I do.”

And with him here I did sort of believe him.





35





XAVIER


CAN YOU HEAR it?” Samantha asked. She still sounded stuffy from crying.

We were back in her room. It was the end of the night. She was lying in her bed and I had my ear pressed to her stomach. “Come On Eileen” was playing three inches from her belly button.

“I can hear it,” I said.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. The fiddle just started.”

“Oh my God,” she groaned. “My life is a sitcom.”

I pulled her shirt back down and propped myself on my elbow to look at her.

“You’re sure I don’t need to go to the doctor?” she asked.

“I’m very sure. You’ll see your earbud again soon.”

She scoffed.

She seemed a little better. Calmer.

I had over a week until I had to go home. More time than I’d ever spent with her. But I already dreaded leaving. It was hard enough going home knowing I would miss her, but it was even harder to leave knowing she needed me.

It had been a very long day.

Her family had decided Christmas would go on as planned. The funeral home was closed, there wasn’t anything else to do for Grandma at the moment, and the boys wanted to open presents.

I didn’t want them to feel like I was intruding on their holiday, but at the same time, wild horses couldn’t have dragged me away from Samantha in her state. So I’d made it my job to collect the torn paper and put batteries in things while they opened gifts, so they could just focus on the fun parts. I set a timer on my phone for bathroom reminders for Lisa and let someone know when they went off. I put out snacks and boxes of tissues and I hovered at the edges and stepped in when I was needed and disappeared to wash dishes and clean up when I wasn’t. And I was happy to do it, to be any kind of useful to her in any way.