Page 110 of Without You

He latches onto my wrist, stopping me. “I’m fine, I promise. We’ll do the boxes, then I’ve got something I want to show you before we go.”

It doesn’t take too long and all the boxes that are coming with us are securely stored and covered in the bed of my truck. When I step back through the front door Julian is waiting for me with the same wooden box that changed my life all those months ago.

Warily I walk over to him and tip my chin toward the box. “Did you end up reading those?”

He shakes his head at me. “I think what you said to me that night last week was the perfect summation of exactly what’s in these.”

“How do you know?”

“Because, just like you pointed out, I know him. I forgot that along the way, and you reminded me of that.” One of his hands begins to mindlessly trace the patterned wood while he continues, “There would have been no conditions placed on the happiness he wanted for me. So, I made a conscious effort to stop putting conditions on myself.”

Unshed tears pool in the corner of Julian’s eyes, and I use all my self-control not to rush in, wipe his tears, and fall into the default, protective mode he seems to trigger. “So, what do you want to do with the box?” I ask, sensing that’s what this is really about.

“I don’t know how we’re going to swing it, but do you think we can try and bury it next to him?”

In three large steps, I’m standing directly in front of him, cradling his face and swiping my thumbs underneath his eyes. “For you, I’ll try.”

He leans into me, kissing me softly. Thanking me. Loving me. The whole exchange is a place I never thought we’d ever make it to, but as we both remember the essence of the strongest, most courageous man we ever knew, we allow ourselves to accept that maybe this was his plan all along.

Needing to lug around two cars to each of our stops, we both drive to the realtor so Julian can drop off the key. And then I follow him as we head to the cemetery. The weather is cold, the wind bitter, but the warmth emanating from my chest is enough to soothe me from the inside out.

As I wrap my arms around his waist and rest my chin on his shoulder none of this feels wrong. I’m not ashamed of my feelings, of what I want, and what I have. And in a unusual twist of maturity, I realize my brother died knowing what it was like to love and be loved by a great man, and that alone is something I will always be indebted to Julian for.

“I think the toolbox in my car might have something we can use to dig up the grass,” I offer.

Julian lifts the lid and pulls out two mini spades. He hands me one. “Help me?”

Kissing his temple, I take one of the tools off him and release my hold on his body. Wordlessly we decide on the grass behind his head stone and begin digging. The earth is a little harder and more claylike than I would’ve preferred for this, but with dry winters it’s an unrealistic expectation that the dirt will move easily.

In silence we dig, and we dig, and we dig. When it seems that we’ve made enough space, Julian raises the box to his lips, closes his eyes, and kisses the wood. I watch him with wonder, gratitude, and appreciation. He’s so peaceful and whole and happy, and he’s mine.

Finished, I stand and hold my hand out to Julian, helping him up off his knees. We both climb into our respective vehicles and prepare for what’s next. One monumental thing down, one more to go.

Forty minutes later, we both park curbside in front of my parents’ place. Giving them a heads-up would’ve alerted them to something being wrong and potentially made them worry. Neither of those reactions are conducive to the conversation we need to have with them.

“Are we ready?” I ask Julian as we meet at the bottom of the porch steps.

“Ready as we’ll ever be.” He slips his hand into mine, giving it a squeeze. “I love you, baby.”

I turn my head and he does the same, our lips meeting for a quick peck. “I love you too.”

With lazy smiles, we both face the front door, only to be met with my wide-eyed mother, looking at us like she’s seen a ghost.

I feel my face fall, and I imagine Julian’s looks much the same. She looks mortified. Absolutely disgusted. I don’t know which one of us is squeezing harder, but if Julian breaks my fingers it would be a welcome relief from the chill in her stare.

Reluctantly we both trudge up the stairs, holding our heads high despite my mother’s intimidation tactics. When we reach the top, I clear my throat and greet her. “Hey, Mom. Is Dad home? We want to talk to you both.”

Her eyes dart down to our joined hands and she points at them. “What’s this?”

“Can we come inside?” My voice is thick, and I sound weak and choked up. I fucking hate being a grown man and reverting to this.

“Julian,” she snaps. “What’s this? Why are you holding his hand?”

“Elaine,” he says calmly. “Deacon and I would really like to talk to you and Bill about us, inside.”

Thankfully, my father walks out at that exact moment. I don’t miss the way his eyes gravitate to our stance, but he recovers quickly enough to know it was just shock, and he’s not completely repulsed like my mother is.

“How about you boys come inside?” My mother glares at him, but she doesn’t argue with him when he backs her out of the entryway, allowing us to walk on through. “Head on into the living room and your mother can bring us a few beers.”

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