Page 90 of The Boyfriend List
“Me, too,” I say. But is that true? Guilt certainly weighs on me heavily for her death. But am I really thinking about her and the beautiful life she lived? Or only thinking about how I could have changed things so that she lived?
“But I’m really glad that I have you guys,” he continues. “Especially you.”
My heart clenches with remorse. “I wish she could be here. I… Every year, I wonder if I could have changed things. If maybe her death was my fault, and I should have gone to the beach with you that day. Maybe she would still be here if I had.”
Tears leak from my eyes along with regret at my words, and I swipe at my cheeks with the back of my hand. I shouldn’t be dumping this all on him. He’s too young to have to comfort me in my guilt and remorse.
“You know, right after my mom died, I thought it was my fault,” Eddie says. “I was the one who wanted to go to the beach that day. I was the one who played pretend that I was Aquaman and thought I could save us from a hurricane.”
“Eddie, of course you weren’t responsible.” His words pierce the layers of grief that have encased my heart for so many years. He was only seven.
He spins around to look at me, an intense expression belying his youthful demeanour. “And you weren’t responsible for my mom’s death, either. The hurricane is.”
Something cracks in my heart. The floodgates of guilt give way to another, stronger emotion.Grace. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. You’re right.”
“It’s okay.” He wraps me in a hug. We’re practically the same height now. In fact, he’s a few inches taller than me, but still pretty skinny. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, Eddie.” I squeeze him back. He smells like salt air and freshpan de sal.
We return to the rest of our family, who are setting up a picnic on a table inside the mausoleum, laying out plates and cutlery and food on the glossy white stone surface.
As we dig into the food, I feel freer—less weighed down by my worries, guilt, and by the past than I have been in a long time. I’m with my family, and that’s what matters the most.
The next day, All Souls’ Day, we get ready to go to Mass. Kostas is Greek Orthodox, but he goes with us anyway, saying he’d like to remember his mom. Apparently, the Orthodox don’t celebrate All Souls’ Day. Raina grew up Catholic, so she’s used to the traditional liturgies.
I spy my aunts and older cousins and our Lola, all wearing mantilla veils as they cross themselves before entering the church. Paulo walks next to me, while Raina and Kostas follow behind us. We scan the pews for an empty row to fit all of us, and find one near the back.
We go through the motions of the mass: kneeling, sitting, and standing when appropriate. The Bible readings seem to hit me more strongly than they have at other masses. Maybe because I haven’t been to church in a few months, telling myself God would understand that I had to work overtimefor the promotion. Now that I’m in the Philippines with my family, though, all of that feels so far-off. So unimportant.
One of the parishioners reads the Old Testament passage, from the book of Wisdom.
"…But they are in peace."
The words linger in my mind as Mass continues. I think of Tita Dolores in the hand of God, not actually dead but alive, at peace.
Father Nilo gives a homily about how grief reminds us that life on earth is short. With a twinge of pain, I think of London and the awkward way we left things. The time I’ve spent with him, even as friends, has been some of the happiest of my life.
I can’t imagine never seeing him again. Never talking to him again. Never making up silly British nicknames for him. Or drinking bubble tea together. Never seeing his smile or hearing his ridiculous puns. Even seeing him push his glasses up his nose absentmindedly when he’s concentrating on a legal brief. All the little details about him that form the constellation of the man I love.
Even if I’m not sure how our eventual reunion will go, I know that I can’t stand the thought of losing everything we’ve built because we let our fears and insecurities overshadow the love we have for each other.
As we file out of the church, we cross ourselves with the holy water from the font next to the door. Raina dabs at her eyes with one of Kostas’ monogrammed handkerchiefs. “That was a beautiful service.”
Kostas gives his assent with a nod, though his grey eyes seem to be gleaming faintly with unshed tears.
Paulo smiles at the two of them. “I’m glad you guys thought so.”
A sense of peace and purpose washes over me, the first I’ve felt in a long time. I know what I have to do.
“You seem different,” Paulo observes a few hours later when we’re havingmerienda—a late afternoon meal between lunch and dinner—at a local cafe. I pick at mykwek-kwek—fried quail eggs in a crunchy, salty batter—and enjoy the scenery and people around me.
“What do you mean?”
“After Mass, I mean. And these past two days. When you first got here, you seemed so sad, so weighed down by everything that had happened. You look happier now,” he says.
“I am,” I say. And I’m surprised that I mean it.
Just then, my phone buzzes, and I get an email notification telling me I've received a response to my job application. My pulse speeds as I open the email, scanning the words.
