Page 19 of Protecting the Nerd

York made a noncommittal sound.

The intensity of the moment hung heavily in the air, a tangible burden that seemed to press down on me as much as their grief. I had seen loss, had felt it coil tight around my heart after losing Charlotte, but this—this was something else. Raw and unyielding, a sorrow that hadn’t dulled with the passing years.

“Essex was…” York’s father stopped as if the right words were just out of reach. His wife, her eyes glistening with fresh tears, reached across the space between them and intertwined their fingers in a silent pact of shared pain.

“Would you like to see his room?” York’s mom asked.

“Of course.” The words tumbled out before I could consider the implications. York shifted beside me, a tension in his frame that hadn’t been there.

“I’ll wait here,” he said.

I followed Mrs. Coombe down a narrow hallway lined with more pictures of Essex, each one a chronological step toward an end that everyone knew was coming but no one could prevent. The door opened with a creak, revealing a room suspended in time.

Everything was as Essex must have left it: the bed made with military precision, medals and trophies displayed on shelves, a model airplane half-assembled on the desk. The sense of him here was so strong that, for a moment, I expected to see him walk through the door, ready to flash his cocky grin.

“Nothing’s been touched.” She straightened a stack of books that didn’t need straightening. “We keep it this way because…because it feels like he might come back if we do.”

“Thank you for showing me,” I said, my throat tight with empathy. I couldn’t begin to imagine what it was like to be trapped in this endless cycle of mourning, nor could I fathom the effect it had on York, who lived every day in the shadow of his larger-than-life brother.

“York doesn’t like to come in here,” she mumbled almost to herself. “Says it’s too much like a museum.”

“Maybe it’s both,” I said gently. “A place to remember but also a reminder that life has to move forward.”

“Perhaps.” She heaved out a sigh that seemed to carry decades of unshed tears. “But some things you never move on from. You learn to live with the loss.”

I didn’t think she was right. My parents had moved on after their loss, and even though they’d always miss Charlotte, her death didn’t dominate their lives anymore. But I kept those thoughts to myself.

We returned to the family room, where York sat as I had left him—a statue on the couch, sharing an uncomfortable silence with his father.

“I’m sure you must be proud of what York has achieved in his work.” I sat in the chair. “His research on control systems is really groundbreaking.” I was determined to steer this sinking ship toward safer waters.

His mother nodded absently, her gaze tethered to the pictures on the mantel. “Yes, he’s always been bright, our York. But it was Essex who…”

Her words trailed off and the conversation slipped back into the gravitational pull of their lost son, as if Essex’s legacy demanded all the air in the room, leaving no space for York’s present achievements or future dreams.

I glanced at York, whose jaw was clenched, the taut line of his mouth a barricade holding back an ocean of responses. The subtle shake of his head was almost imperceptible, but I caught it—an unspoken plea laced with resignation. I wanted to fight for him, to shout his worth from the rooftops, but the hurt darkening his eyes was a clear command: let it be.

I took his hand and laced our fingers together, the only sign of support I could offer, but Jesus, I wanted to hug this man. Where those strong feelings originated from was something I’d rather not think about. “Essex was special.”

In conceding, I acknowledged the imbalance that the scale would always tip in favor of the son and hero lost to war, leaving the living son unnoticed.

We waded through more polite exchanges—the weather, the drive up, York’s curt explanation we’d be staying in Forestville for a while—but each word felt like a stone skipped across the surface of a deep lake, never meant to delve beneath.

When we eventually stepped out of The Lodge, the fresh air hit me like a wake-up call. I had never been happier to leave a place, and that included some of the world’s most dangerous areas. I’d take a gunfight or battle over this cold war any day. At least in a fight, I could face our enemy and have a chance at taking them out. In there, we’d been battling ghosts. How did you defeat something you couldn’t see? How did you drive out ghosts of the past when people were so determined to hang on to them?

I had no answers. There were a thousand things I wanted to say to York, a thousand reassurances I wanted to offer, but I had no words. As York started the engine, I put my hand on his. He glanced sideways, and the pain in his gaze was so staggering it took my breath away.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, his voice cracking as he averted his eyes.

“I know.”

“I can’t.”

“York…” I waited until he looked at me again. “I know.”

He breathed out, put the car in reverse, and drove off.

7

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