Jeremiah winced. “Good point. Maybe you’re not that bright.”
I laughed.
He twisted his crossword book so we could both see. Half the puzzle was filled in. “Seventeen down: Chicago-style prohibited condiment.”
I thought for a second. “Ketchup.”
He counted the squares, then grabbed his pencil. “Bingo. Twenty-three across: popular nineties shopping board game.”
“Mall Madness. You’re giving me the easy ones.”
He raised an eyebrow, gestured at his thick beard and bear-shaped physique. “Do I look like the target consumer for Mall Madness?” I laughed again. “I’ve never even heard of it. Like I said, you might be smarter than you give yourself credit for.”
I shrugged.
He consulted his puzzle. “Forty-two down: surname of Dwight Schrute’s nemesis.”
“Oh, come on. You’re telling me you’ve never watched The Office? H-a-l-p-e-r-t.”
“I was spelling it wrong.” He filled in the letters. “And of course I did. Don’t tell me Jim is your favorite or I’ll have to ask you to sit elsewhere.” He put a hand to his chest. “Or Pam, heaven forbid.”
I made a face. “Obviously it’s Michael. But can we talk about how seriously underrated seasons three through five Andy Bernard is?”
“Only if we first discuss that Creed is the actual hero of the show. Minute for minute he adds more humor than any other player.”
We smiled at each other.
Jeremiah twirled the pencil between his fingers and stared at the puzzle. “My brother used to help me with these when we were younger. I took care of history and politics. He knew all the art and Hollywood ones. He loved old movies.” A far-off gaze crossed his face. “One summer he made me watch all of the Oscar winners. I whined through every single black-and-white film—Why couldn’t we watch Superman for the fiftieth time like the other kids? He ignored me, naturally.”
He leaned back in his chair, stroking his throat. “Now every year on his birthday I rent the latest Best Picture winner. I get popcorn for me, Junior Mints for him—which I always end up throwing out. What kind of ghoul likes Junior Mints?”
I held up my hands to say Not me.
“Only my dumb brother.” Jeremiah drew stars in the margins of the crossword page. “We were a good team.”
“You miss him.”
“Yup.”
“I’m so tired of people telling me it’s going to get better.” I kept my eyes on the stars. “It doesn’t get better, does it?”
He made a noncommittal noise. “I’m not fighting for every breath anymore. The pain’s less sharp, but it’s still there. I wake up some mornings and don’t see his face first thing. That hurts in its own way.”
“I don’t want to stop seeing her face. Ever.”
“I know.”
I checked my watch. “Shit, my one-on-one’s in a couple minutes.” I lingered at the table, not wanting the conversation to end.
“You’d better not be late. Take the shortcut through the back door.”
“That’s what she said,” I called as I ran.
* * *
? ? ?
MINUTES LATER I sat across from Rebecca on the couch in her office. She wore a formfitting black tee and trousers, her feet bare, toenails painted the color of dried blood. She studied me warmly. I forced myself to maintain eye contact. I wanted to be a tidal wave.
After half a minute of silence, she pursed her plum-shaded lips. “Have you come up with your mantra yet?”
I nodded uncertainly. Night after night I had obsessed in bed over what it should be. The task felt like a test I needed to pass. I had even tried coming up with something about a tidal wave but decided that was too kiss-assy, even if it was true.
Rebecca waited, watching me. She had too much self-control to repeat the question or drum her fingernails on the chair’s arm. For as long as it took, she would sit there patiently.
I toyed with the rubber band on my wrist. “Die with memories, not dreams.”
Her eyes gleamed. “One more time, with confidence.”
I puffed up my chest, summoned false bravery. “Die with memories, not dreams.”
Her face split open into a grin. “It’s perfect.” I let out a sigh. “How clever you are.”
“You think so?” I asked doubtfully, hopefully.
“We must work on your self-confidence. We don’t think—we know. How will this mantra guide you?”