Page 83 of Tell Me Again

“I’ll hurry. I just...” I trail off when she puts her hand on my arm. It’s a little comforting, like her touch has always been. But even her warmth isn’t quite enough to keep the cold out. Not right now.

I start the car, and we head over to the florist. It takes me a few minutes because I have to write a note inside the card and words are really, really hard right now. Then I have to confirm several times that yes, I do want this bouquet of two dozen red roses delivered today to Coop at Mel’s Diner. There’s a moment where I wonder if the florist might refuse to make the delivery. We are in rural Nebraska, after all. And I have to try to ignore the way my heart’s racing with anxiety, ignore how I’m doing this very public thing that’s essentially announcing I’m gay. But then, the woman smiles, and her eyes soften a bit, and she asks me to confirm what time I want the delivery made.

Five minutes later, I’m climbing back into Brenna’s car, and I have a little bit of hope. Mostly, it’s hope that I haven’t just screwed everything up. Again. Hope that he’ll read my note and let us talk when I call later. Hope that I’m not making another of the biggest mistakes of my life.

Brenna’s quiet when I start up the car and pull out onto the main road, heading east. After a few minutes, when we’re several miles outside of White Hills, her hand sets on my thigh.

“I’m sorry for making you do this. I shouldn’t have asked this of you. I should have just stayed there and...”

“Bren, please, don’t apologize. Really,” I say. I take one hand off the steering wheel and reach down to cover her hand. “I don’t want you to feel like... like my mistakes are your fault.”

I glance at her, but she’s staring straight ahead of us now. She shakes her head slightly. “I tried to stick it out, especially since I knew you needed this week with Coop. But my mom and dad—they don’t mean to be, um, upsetting me. And they’re not really. I mean, it’s more just that... I need some space to—to grieve or... something. It was too much to stay there. I’ve never felt so trapped before, and I just really, really needed to get away...”

God, her words hurt, and I can feel my guilt flaring up again. I’m actually not sure I’ve ever heard her say anything like this before. I’m not sure she’s ever felt—or told me she’s felt—anxiety like this.

She’s always been so completely down-to-earth, with this quiet confidence about her. She’s not arrogant in any way, just easygoing, rolls with whatever comes. I’m the one with all the anxiety and shit always going on. And she’s always been here to support and encourage me. Always.

Now, I’ve caused her all this grief—which she somehow, somehow still doesn’t blame me for and understands and isn’t mad about—and I just can’t not be here for her too. I can’t not drive her home and make sure she’s okay. I can’t.

She takes her hand back, and when I look over at her again, she’s got her eyes closed and her head tilted back against the headrest. My heart clenches.

I want to say so many things to her. Apologize again. Tell her how beautiful and wonderful she is. Tell her how much I still love her. But I think she might need some space here, too, inside the car—space to just have her own thoughts and sort through them, away from her parents and without me forcing her to remember the life she’d had planned for us. So I put both hands back on the steering wheel and focus my attention on the drive.

And I try not to think about what Coop might be doing right now and whether he’s even going to accept the delivery.

***

We stop for gas almost three hours later, in a small town called York. Brenna actually slept almost the whole time, and when we pull up into the parking lot of the gas station, she frowns for a moment before offering to run in and buy some food for the road while I pump gas.

She’s usually one to want to stop at a sit-down restaurant to eat, so her offer surprises me a bit. But I quickly nod an agreement, and we both get out of the car. The tank doesn’t take long to fill, and when I’m finished, I climb back into the car and turn it on, cranking the heat up all the way to stave off the chill seeping in through the windows.

Then I swallow hard and pull my cell phone out of my pocket. I haven’t checked it since we left White Hills, even though I’ve felt it buzz a few times now. And I don’t really know what I’m expecting. Coop’s working; given that it’s probably right in the middle of lunchtime rush right now, he wouldn’t be sitting there messing around on his cell phone. Or texting me.

I’d asked them to deliver the flowers at a quarter to two—just before his break, but when it shouldn’t be too busy. That’s still about forty-five minutes from now. So I shouldn’t be surprised when the notifications are not from him. I shouldn’t be. But my stomach sinks all the same.

One text message is from a patient of mine, asking a question about an exercise I’d given her. I reply with a short response and link to a YouTube video to remind her how the exercise is supposed to be done. The other notification is a text from my mom, and I’m still staring at my phone, trying to decide whether to read the message, when Brenna gets back into the car.

“Something important?” she asks as she sets a small shopping bag down on the floor and buckles her seat belt.

I frown but don’t answer right away. Instead, I take the plunge and tap on my mom’s name. It’s a short message. Just a brief request for me to call her when I get the chance. I swallow hard.

We don’t talk a lot, me and my mom. Just slightly more often than I talk to my dad, I guess. Holidays, birthdays, funerals... weddings. So unless someone died...

I clear my throat. “My mom wants me to call her,” I say, still staring at the words on my phone screen.

Brenna’s quiet for a beat, then says, “Oh.” I hear her shuffle in her seat. “Are you going to?”

“She probably . . . heard about the wedding.”

“Probably.”

My stomach twists into knots. I don’t know if I have the strength to think about this right now. I don’t know if I’m ready to tell her—which really means telling them, both of my parents—and I don’t know if I ever will be.

And just like always, Brenna is here for me. She sets her hand on my shoulder and squeezes gently.

“No one is entitled to know, Josh,” she reminds me softly. “It’s for you to decide, when you want to. If you want to.” Then she pulls her hand back, and I glance over at her.

“They’re my parents,” I say, although it’s a weak argument. “But—”

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