Page 12 of Without You

“What is it son, what’s the matter?”

“I was wondering if you could meet me at Whole Foods? My car, I mean, Rhett’s car won’t start.”

“Is it feasible for you to wait? Is the car blocking anything? I just have to tie up a few loose ends here and then I’ll take my lunch break.”

“Yeah,” I say in relief. “Take your time, I’m not in a rush.”

“Okay, I’ll see you soon.”

We both hang up, and I patiently wait, grateful that it’s cold outside and my frozen food won’t defrost in the trunk.

I know how lucky I am that I can depend on Rhett’s family, but I hate it all the same. It’s moments like these where I begrudge the man I’ve become. I’m twenty-seven years old, and most days I feel like a fumbling eighteen-year-old. I had plans and dreams. Wants and needs. And now I have nothing; not even a flutter of excitement for things to come and things that could be.

Rhett dying wasn’t unexpected, yet that didn’t make it any less tragic. And every time the cancer came back, it poisoned me right along with him.

It blackened my insides, darkened my soul, and killed every single living feeling inside me. Slowly, painfully, I didn’t just lose Rhett. I lost me.

Sometimes I wonder if death really is the worst thing, because being alive and feeling so empty and hollow seems to be much worse.

It wasn’t just that I lost my boyfriend, but I lost my best friend, and the future we planned for together. That’s what hurts the most.

When I was four years old, my parents died in a car accident. It was a lot to process at that age. One day they were here and the next they weren’t.

I remember them being good, I remember being loved, but the memory is never enough to combat the loss of belonging that followed.

My only living relative was my grandmother, and she took me in with open arms and brightened my world with her beautiful heart. When she died, I felt the loss more, I was four years older and our bond was stronger. She was my last living relative, and she was my last safe place, until I met Rhett.

I got shuffled around to a few different foster homes at first. And then eighteen months after my grandmother died, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson agreed to keep me on a permanent basis. There’s no sob story that comes with it; they were nice people, but they were just doing a job; ticking all the boxes and collecting their checks. I don’t begrudge them, I had a roof over my head and food in my stomach.

But there was no heart, no warmth, no love. I didn’t have anyone in my corner, I didn’t have a family, until Rhett and his family moved into the house next door.

We became fast friends, his parents and his home feeling more like mine than the four walls next door ever would. They never asked questions, and they never treated me differently.

When I turned eighteen, I was given access to some money that had been left to me by both my parents and grandmother. Not wanting to be anybody else’s burden, I moved out of the Anderson’s house as soon as I could. After a lot of convincing and what we hoped would be the beginning of forever for Rhett, he was twenty and in remission, he moved in with me.

Elaine couldn’t part with him when he was sick, and he never had the heart to argue with her. Eventually, the idea he was finally healthy wore her down. It was his first step into independence, and the first step into the new phase of our relationship. And like the good parents Bill and Elaine were, they were behind Rhett and me every step of the way.

They were the kind of people that let you spread your wings just enough to make you feel free and hovered enough to make sure you didn’t fall.

No matter how old I was, I was their kid just as much as Rhett was, and it was never a problem. Until now. I spent all my time with Rhett when he was healthy. And then when he got sick again? Well, cancer doesn’t give you time to make friends, or keep friends. My world was always small, and now it’s minute.

Now, I feel like a charity case. I’m the guy they check in on, because they feel obligated to their dead son. In fact, it’s probably part of why Bill comes by the bar so often. He could just as easily drink at home. But I think he feels like he needs to see for himself that I’m functioning. I’ve tried to put some distance between us, but there’s always a moment where I falter and I need them. And the truth is, they’re the only people I can count on.

A loud knock on my window disrupts my thoughts and I turn to see Mr. Sutton, with jumper cables in hand, waiting for me on the other side. I lean forward, reaching for the lever underneath the steering wheel, and wait to hear the hood pop.

Once it does, Bill takes it as his cue to walk to the front of my car. He raises the heavy metal and attaches the cables to my dead battery.

He straightens them out till they reach his already prepped vehicle. I open my door and stick half my body out.

“Tell me when you need me to start my car,” I call out.

He raises his fingers, counting out one, two, three. On three, I turn the ignition, praying for a miracle. The engine churns repetitively before cutting out.

I look up to meet his gaze. He gives me a nod and I try again. Thankfully after a few forceful pushes with my foot on the accelerator, and four more turns of my key, the car comes to life.

My body sags into the seat in relief, as Mr. Sutton slams down the hood. His face beams at me in success.

I smile back at him and step out of the car to thank him. Before I have a chance, he shakes his head at me. “Julian, it’s time. Youneedto get rid of this car.”

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