Page 36 of The Best You've Ever Had

Despite my efforts to tune out the drone of the television, I can’t make out what the doctor is telling them. All I can see are Ben and Dante’s backs, nearly identical with their broad frames and heads full of dark hair. Brandy stands beside them, twisting her hands nervously, her anxiety radiating off of her like heat from a blazing fire.

Their heads nod as they listen intently, clinging to every word, caught between optimism and dread. The defeated slump of their shoulders tells me the news isn’t good. The doctor nods and walks away, back where he came from down the long hall.

The three of them turn to each other, their eyes full of tears. Brandy and Dante embrace tightly, breaking down as they cling to one another, fully understanding the depth of each other’s pain. Ben tilts his head to the ceiling as if he can stop his tears from falling if gravity isn’t part of the equation. But it’s no use, because even from several feet away, I can see them. I can see every note of pain, every chord of grief, in his expression. My own eyes fill with tears that I don’t let fall. I can’t escape the pain, yet I’m too cowardly to face it head-on like everyone else. Not because I don’t care, but because they need support. If there’s one thing I can do for them right now, it’s being strong to help them through this.

A nurse steps out and nods at Brandy and Dante, signaling that two visitors can come back to say their goodbyes. Ben watches his parents walk through the hospital doors until they slowly close shut. With his hands in the pockets of his jeans, he stands stock-still, his back turned to the waiting area. It’s as if his body is in denial, frozen in place.

Standing from my chair, I make my way over to him, still wrapped in his coat. When I reach him, he won’t look at me. His eyes are buried in the palm of his hand as he tries to breathe, but his breaths come out ragged and frantic. It’s like he’s just awoken from a night terror, except reality is his nightmare.

“Ben,” I whisper softly, my voice breaking. “I’m here. You’re not alone.”

His eyes finally meet mine, filled with a pain so raw it takes my breath away. He swallows hard, trying to compose himself, but the tears well up and spill over. My heart tears into two at the sight of him. His perfect hair is a mussed up mess, from hours of nervously running his hand through it. His dark eyes are nearly black, and lashes thick with tears shed. But most of all, he looks so helpless—vulnerable and unsure of what to even do next.

The overwhelming sense to comfort him hits me square in the chest. So I wrap my arms around him, as if I can burrow deeper and alleviate his grief. His mouth lands on top of my head, kissing my hair and breathing me in with a shaky breath.

“Is he gone?” I whisper.

I can feel the Adam’s apple of his throat bob, before he replies, “Yes. He went into cardiac arrest.”

I bury myself deeper into him. “Shit. I’m so sorry.”

“I just, I can’t…” he trails off, choking up with a sob. I throw my arms around his neck, pulling his face down into the crook of my shoulder. His tears fall onto my skin, and I simply hold him for minute after minute as he cries into me. I hold him tighter than I’ve ever held onto anything. Because I can be his lighthouse home. In the darkest of night, he’ll be able to find his way back. I can be steady, loyal, and dependable—guiding him for as long as he’s still looking for that light, and path back to shore.

Maybe that’s the only solution when things get hard. To be there, unwavering, throughout it all. Because even though today may be one of the worst days of his life—he’ll survive it. And I’m going to be the one to show him that he’ll make it through this.

We stand in the suffocating stillness of the waiting room, clinging to each other like we’re one, when it hits me. He feels like home—comfortable and familiar.

The realization sends a chill through my bones because I’m not that type. I don’t get attached. If life has taught me one thing, it’s to never get comfortable, because there’s always bad shit waiting for you right around the corner.

Yet, every corner I turn, it always seems to come back to this—to Ben. Blunt, honest, and somehow perfectly meant for me.

As we go through the motions of the night, I have no words to offer him. Perhaps there is no right thing to say. Maybe there’s not any words, in any language, that could lessen the grief and pain. It’s all about actions. Being there, and letting them cry on your shoulder. Stroking their hair until they finally drift into a fitful sleep. Making their favorite dish so they will have the appetite for food.

Maybe love isn’t about being loud and flashy, but it’s about beingthere.

Chapter Thirteen

Ben

Layla drivesme home from the hospital, the silence in the car heavy, as if grief has filled every inch of space with sadness. There are no words. No special medications. Nothing to bring him back.

He’s gone, and now all I have left are the memories of him. Trips to the ice cream shop after school for heaping scoops of mint chocolate chip. Showing me around the old firehouse where he once worked. Rebuilding the old cherry red Ford truck in his garage. Helping me with my application into college to study fire science, just as he did.

Now the image of him lying in that hospital bed, looking frail and peaceful, is seared into my brain. It’s as if he was a wax figure in a museum, a lifelike replica that’s no longer here, even though his body remained. There were no wires hooked up to machines, no constant beeping. Just the quiet and stillness of the room, enveloping me as if it had a physical presence of its own.

When we pull into the driveway, Layla turns off the car, holding the keys in the ignition like it will fuel her will to find the right words to say.

My heart begins to race and I have no idea what’s wrong with me. All I feel is red hot panic. It comes on so suddenly that catching my breath seems like a chore, and my lungs burn like a spreading wildfire, warning of impending doom.

She unbuckles her seatbelt and turns to me, grabbing my forearm of the hand that’s clinging on for dear life to the arm rest. “Hey. Are you okay?”

I can’t even look at her. Not like this. My heart is in my throat, and my stomach feels sick with a false sense of alarm. We’re sitting in the damn driveway, but it feels like I’m free-falling from a plane.

“Breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth.” Her voice is gentle and soothing.

My breath stutters, broken like a hiccup, as I try to follow her instructions. It feels useless as my body blares stress signals, screaming that this is it. This is the end.

I hear the click and release of my seatbelt as she rises to make herself eye level with me. Grabbing my face, her small hands gently turn my head so I have no choice but to look into her blue eyes. “Look at me. You’re okay. Just keep trying to take a slow breath in.” She inhales deeply, as if drawing in every molecule of oxygen around us, then exhales slow and controlled through soft, pursed lips.

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