Totally and Completely Fine(76)

“Thanks. Thanks for the tea and cookies,” she said, leashing Teddy.

I waited alone.

When Gabe finally came downstairs, I had more hot water going and a cup with a tea bag ready for him. He sat at the counter, his face pale, his eyes red. It looked as if all the life had been leeched out of him, which was exactly how it felt when a thirteen-year-old tore you a new one. Especially if you knew you deserved it.

I made him a cup of tea and set it in front of him. We both stared at it, the thin line of steam trailing from the rim so beautiful and elegant that it seemed out of place. He drank it, and even though I knew it was too hot, he didn’t wince once. Didn’t even pause to absorb the pain he was probably feeling. He just drank it. Just took it.

“She hates me,” he finally said.

“It’s not a chronic condition,” I said.

He managed a choked laugh, but halfway through, there were tears rolling down his cheeks. It broke my heart. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him cry. It had been a while.

Apparently we were all crying at the drop of a hat now.

He pushed the tears roughly aside.

“I’m so sorry, Lauren,” he said. “What the fuck was I thinking?”

I didn’t know exactly what he was talking about, but I was pretty sure it had to do with the worst accusation I’d heard Lena levy at him: being drunk at Spencer’s funeral.

I’d noticed, but I’d hoped that she was too young—that she didn’t even really understand what Gabe’s bloodshot eyes and occasional slurring meant.

It was a stupid assumption.

“You weren’t,” I told him. “You were in the midst of the worst part of your addiction.”

“It’s not an excuse.”

“I know,” I said. “It’s just reality.”

Gabe put his head in his hands.

“I’m a monster,” he said.

“Stop it,” I said, even though I’d said the same to myself.

“I can’t believe how selfish I was—how selfish I am,” he said.

“Gabe,” I said. “Stop.”

He looked up at me, his eyes red and pained.

“I miss him so much,” he said.

Dad. Spencer.

“I know,” I said. “I miss him too.”

Gabe nodded, but it was a tight, taut movement, as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to make it. As if he wasn’t allowed to feel what he was feeling.

“It’s not the same, though, is it?” He sounded miserable. “We were friends. But you and he were…you guys were…”

I stopped him.

“That’s not how this works. There’s not a limited amount of grief and you need to make sure I get the right ratio of pain. It’s something we all share. Something we should share.”

We hadn’t.

That needed to change.

It terrified me. The wave of emotions I’d been holding back.

I was worried it would pull me under. That I’d never find the surface again.

Then I thought about what Ben had said. You don’t get over grief—you get through it.

We could get through this.

Gabe looked up at the ceiling and let out a breath.

“It’s not fair,” he said.

“No, it’s not,” I said, but I sensed that he meant it in more than just the general sense of the word.

He looked over at me.

“Can I tell you something horrible?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said.

Gabe closed his eyes.

“It should have been me,” he said.

I was speechless for a moment. Not surprised, really, because I’d had the same thought—not about Gabe, but about myself. I’d just never said it out loud and my heart filled with tenderness and love that Gabe had. He was brave.

Braver than me.

“You should have been the one driving down Main Street that night?” I asked lightly.

“You know what I mean,” he said.

“I know,” I said. “But I also know that there’s no way it could have been you.”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Not like that,” he said. “But I’d been drinking so much at that point. Why didn’t that kill me? Why do I get to be here and he’s not? He was a good person. A good husband. A good father.”

His voice was raw. Rough.

It hurt to hear the pain, and I had to blink back tears.

“Can I tell you something horrible?” I asked.

“Please,” he said.

“I can’t remember if I told Spencer I loved him the night he died,” I said.

I’d never told anyone that before. My deepest shame. My regret.

“He was going out to run errands and I was at the kitchen counter looking at my phone or something, and he said I love you, and I can’t remember if I said it back.”

I felt a small sort of relief in saying it out loud.

“He knew,” Gabe said. “Of course he knew.”

I took his hand. “You’re not a monster. You’re a good person.”

He wouldn’t look at me.

“I’m an addict,” he said.

I nodded. “And a good person.”