Page 41 of Protecting the Nerd

13

YORK

This had been the single worst day of the year since 2003. Yet, every year, I forced myself to show up and endure it.

I asked myself why plenty of times until I figured out the reason, which was depressing as fuck. No matter how much I despised it, I faithfully attended the commemoration of my brother’s death because somewhere deep inside, I still clung to the impossible hope that one day, my parents would let go of him and focus on me instead.

What was that saying? Hope springs eternal? This one had proven impossible to squash, no matter how many times I told myself it was ridiculous. The very definition of insanity. We’d been doing this for twenty years now, and every year, the same thing happened. They were heartbroken, lamenting how the sun would never shine in their lives again because their precious son was gone. So why would this year be different?

Well, in all fairness, one thing would be a change. Quillon would be with me. As my boyfriend, he’d have to come. Not that he’d ever allow me to go without him anyway. And while I hated having a bodyguard at first, now I didn’t mind so much anymore. I liked hanging out with him, and the fact that I wouldn’t be alone today meant the world to me.

But would having him there change anything? I doubted it.

“York.”

I spun around. Quillon stood before me in his dress blues, not a wrinkle in sight, the buttons polished to a shine, and an impressive row of medals on his chest. His white cap was pulled low over his eyes and he stood tall and proud. I swallowed. “I didn’t know you’d be wearing your uniform.”

“I won’t if you don’t want me to, but?—”

“It’s okay.”

“Are you sure? I know you have mixed feelings about this.”

“Mixed? I hate it. I hate this day with every fiber of my being, but that doesn’t matter. You’re a Marine, and so was he. It’s your way of honoring that part of him.”

“Thank you.”

“You look…” I gestured at him, my mouth dry. “It’s a beautiful uniform. Impressive.”

Funny how a uniform could change a man. I’d been around Quillon for two weeks, but now I saw him with different eyes. He was hot. Really, really hot. I’d known that, of course, but the uniform did something to me. But maybe that was a common reaction. Weren’t there psychological implications about men in uniform?

“I’m proud to wear it.”

“You should be.” I swallowed, trying to get rid of the strange dryness in my mouth. “We should go.”

The sky was packed with dreary clouds threatening to spill their load, but we didn’t need our umbrellas as we walked to the cemetery. Quillon hadn’t taken my hand, and I hadn’t offered. My insides churned and roiled from the emotional torment that lay ahead, and seeing Quillon in his uniform had added an extra layer. I was aware of him, of his presence right next to me, in a way I had never been. It was the strangest experience.

My parents waited for us at the entrance, but they weren’t alone. Auden, Tomás, Tiago, Fir, and even Marnin had also shown up. Tears formed in my eyes, and I had to take a deep breath to get myself under control. They hadn’t come for my parents or Essex. They were here for me, to support me.

“You didn’t tell me they’d be here,” Quillon said softly.

“I didn’t know. In the beginning, Auden came a few times, but then he stopped, and the others have never attended.”

Their presence meant a lot to my parents, that much was clear. My mom’s eyes were red-rimmed but shone with gratitude as she chatted with them. She had an easier time talking to them than she did to me.

“Oh, Quillon,” my mom said. “Thank you for wearing your uniform. You look…you look as proud as Essex did.”

Lord help me the next hour because I wanted to turn right around and walk away.

“Thank you for coming,” I whispered in Fir’s ear as I hugged him tightly.

“You’ll never have to do this alone again,” he said softly.

I didn’t have words to thank the others, so I hoped my curt nod would communicate my gratitude. And then we shuffled to Essex’s grave, which looked immaculate, of course. Not a single weed dared to poke through the gravel, and my parents brought fresh flowers every week. My mom had brought a beautiful bouquet of white roses, which she laid down, weeping soundlessly.

My dad was next, and he put down a picture of Essex in his uniform with shaking hands. He leaned heavily on his walking stick these days. How long did he have before he’d need a wheelchair?

“York…” my mom said, almost like a plea.

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