Page 66 of Never Quite Gone

“I kept it on,” I whispered, touching the ring that hadn't left my finger in six years. “Even when we... I couldn't take it off. And Alex understood. But I still feel like I'm betraying him, Rach. Like I'm trying to replace him.”

Rachel was around the table before I could blink, pulling me into the fierce hug that only little sisters can give. “It's been six years,” she said against my hair, her own voice thick with tears. “Six years since Michael was taken from us. From all of us.”

She pulled back, holding my face between her hands like she had the night of the accident. Her touch felt exactly the same – anchoring, grounding, full of the love that had helped put me back together when everything fell apart.

“I miss him every day,” she continued, thumbs brushing away tears I hadn't realized were falling. “You know that. The stupid jokes he made at family dinners. The way he'd spend hours explaining architecture to anyone who'd listen. How he made this house perfect for us because 'family deserves perfect sight lines.'” Her laugh held both grief and love. “But Eli... I think it's time for you to live again. Really live, not just exist.”

“What if I forget him?” The whispered fear felt childish, but Rachel's eyes held no judgment.

“Forget Michael?” She settled into the chair beside me, one hand still gripping mine. “The man who redesigned our entire kitchen because the workflow wasn't 'optimal for familial bonding'? Who spent three hours at my wedding explaining proper brick alignment to Dad's contractor friend?”

Despite everything, I found myself smiling at the memory. “Poor guy just wanted to enjoy the open bar.”

“But Michael insisted he understand the historical significance of load-bearing techniques.” Rachel squeezed my fingers. “Those memories aren't going anywhere, big brother. Loving someone new doesn't erase what you had with Michael. It just... makes your heart bigger.”

“Alex makes me laugh,” I admitted quietly, remembering warm hands and gentle understanding. “Really laugh, not just the polite kind.”

“I know.” Rachel's smile held knowing warmth.

I stared into my cooling soup, remembering Alex's touch in the dark, careful with my heart even while making it race. “It feels like betrayal,” I whispered. “Being happy with someone else.”

“No.” Rachel's voice held fierce certainty. “You know what would be betrayal? Locking your heart away forever. Michael loved life so much, loved you so much. He'd hate seeing you just... existing instead of living.”

Fresh tears spilled as she pulled me close again, holding me while years of guilt and grief poured out. The kitchen clock kept steady time, marking moments between sobs until I could breathe normally again.

“Tell me about it,” Rachel said finally, returning to her own chair. “About Alex. About that night.”

“Rach—”

“Not the details,” she clarified quickly. “Just... was it good? Did he make you feel safe?”

I thought about Alex's rooftop garden, about gentle hands and patient understanding. About how he'd known exactly when to push and when to wait. “Yeah,” I admitted softly. “It was... right. Even with everything else going on, even with all the complications... being with him felt right.”

Rachel's smile bloomed slow and sure. “Then maybe that's all you need to know right now.”

She reheated our soup, adding extra crackers the way our mother always had. We talked about easier things – her pregnancy, David's latest firefighting stories, the way ourfather still couldn't work his new phone. But when I stood to leave, she caught my arm.

“Love isn't a finite resource,” she said softly. “Your heart isn't betraying Michael by making room for someone new. It's honoring him by remembering how to live.”

“When did my little sister get so wise?” I asked, trying to lighten the moment.

“Probably around the time my big brother started being an idiot about his feelings.” She threw a dish towel at my head with perfect aim. “Besides, someone has to keep you functioning. It's a full-time job.”

“Says the woman who called me at 3 AM because she couldn't decide what color to paint the nursery.”

“That was a legitimate crisis!” She protested, hand resting on her growing belly. “And you're changing the subject. We were talking about you and Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Sophisticated.”

I groaned. “Please don't call him that.”

“Would you prefer 'Your Dreamy Developer'? 'Architecture Appreciation Society President'?”

“I'm leaving now.”

“Oh no you're not.” She blocked my path to the door with surprising agility for someone seven months pregnant. “Not until you promise to stop overthinking everything. And maybe answer your phone once in a while? Some of us worry when our surgeon brother goes mysteriously silent.”

“Fine,” I conceded, pulling her into a hug. “But only because I'm afraid you'll waddle after me if I don't agree.”

“I do not waddle!” She smacked my arm. “I glide gracefully, thank you very much.”

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