Page 80 of A Bucket List Birthday

He texts back almost immediately, and it reminds me of how worried he is. If he saw me now–heard my voice–he’d come home. I know how important this step was to him, and I cannot be the thing that holds him back.

I decide not to answer.

Dragging myself off the bed, I leave the photos scattered around. The whole house feels cold and dark when I make my way to the bathroom, but the brush of fur at my ankles provides a small relief. Simon’s warm body reminds me of the warmth of Finn’s chest, and the way his smile cracks across his face–brightening everything about him.

Finn is happy.

I want to hold that happy, keep my hands steady as I protect it with my life. My tears won’t stain the precious thing we’ve built. I won’t let them.

Thirty-Five

Griffin

She didn’t answer.

I couldn’t stop staring at my phone as the tour bus plowed down the open highway, racing just as fast as my heart.

Worry wrapped around me from one state to the next until I found myself consumed by it and questioning all of my choices to leave when I did. I know Ellis would have never let me stay–she would have felt guilty, but it would have been worth it if she needed me.

Ryland plucks at a guitar from a stool, his voice winding through the fancy equipment on stage, floating over floors that will no doubt be sticky by the night’s end.

I try to distract myself by listening and thinking about work, but Ryland isn’t using any of the equipment. He’s just doing something he loves, which is exactly how I’ve felt since joining them on this tour. For the first time in my life, I’ve allowed myself to leave my family–my home. I’m chasing after something new, but at the same time, my home had just gotten bigger. The circle of people I care about–people I could lose–got bigger.

Leaning back in my chair, I pull the hood of my sweatshirt up and put my arms behind my head. Ryland is just fucking around as he plays “The Girl” by City and Colour from the stage. The reality of touring is that we spend a lot of time fucking around with the instruments.

It means I have a lot of time to think about Ellis.

I close my eyes, letting the words take shape in my mind, painting a picture of her, her hair tucked behind her ear as she scratches charcoal across paper. An image of her climbing a chain linked fence in the middle of December flashes through my mind. She’d been glowing that night.

So much of that time with Ellis had been spent being something different than what I’d been since my brother died. I stopped being so afraid and started letting go.

A far more harrowing picture of her replaces the images of how happy she was. It’s Ellis alone, the corners of her pink lipstilted downward, eyes glistening with tears she refuses to let anyone see.

The guitar stops, but I hardly notice.

When my brother died, I held on to everyone and everything–afraid they’d all slip away without warning. Something about the text–theI’m finefeels just like that. Slipping away.

I’m haunted by the loss all over again. The feeling of hunkering down and clinging to the familiar.

“You good, man?”

No.

I open my eyes and iron out the crease that formed between my brows, my hands still casually placed on the back of my head. “For tonight?” I say. “Yeah. All is good.”

Ryland grunts as he moves even closer with the guitar still clutched in his tattooed hand. “Not the show. Something else.” A metal chair screeches as he drags it across the floor, sitting himself far enough that I don’t feel crowded, but close enough that I know we are about to have a conversation–one I’d rather be having with Noah if he’d answer his phone.

“I’m good,” I assure. It’s my last ditch effort at hiding the weight on my chest, making it hard to breathe.

“Nah,” he says casually, setting the guitar on the floor. “What’s up?”

I run my hand down my face, sighing as I give into whatever this strange intervention is about to be. Ryland and I are friends–I think. Being crowded on a tour bus, haunted by the worst gas station food shits will do that. Those damn ghosts lurk around every corner–just like the memories threatening to drag me under.

I’m so damn tempted to get on a flight and justleave.

“What do you do when shit happens at home?” I ask. “With your wife and kids, I mean?” It’s a real question. I don’tknow how anyone can do this–how they can hold on to their relationships while being gone.

Ryland chuckles, placing his elbows on his knees as he clasps his hands together. “I’d be lying to you if I said it was easy. My family is my number one regardless of what I choose to do with my career.” He taps a thumb on the back of his other hand. “We have a good support system. I’m not the only one who can take care of my wife, and it would be selfish to think I was. She’d say she can take care of herself, I guess.” A smile splits his face. “She’d say it even when the car breaks down, but deep down we both know her dad saves her ass on that one every time.”

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