Page 86 of October
Jimmy hesitated, the suspicion still there but thinning around the edges, replaced by something almost shy. "Okay," he mumbled. "Um... that mug."
He pointed to the chipped old mug with the little fox painted near the rim, and I nearly laughed, of all the things, that sweet, silly mug. Thomas and I exchanged a glance that held so many things, relief, love, guilt, hope, and then we picked up our pencils.
For a while, the kitchen was filled only with the scratch of graphite on paper, the quiet hum of the fridge, and the softsounds of us breathing near each other. For a second, his expression didn't change, but then I saw it: a tiny shift around his mouth, the way his shoulders dropped, the almost-hidden spark in his eyes that he couldn't quite smother. Teenage boys are masters of indifference, but even they can't hide everything.
I'm okayish at sketching, nothing impressive, just doodles that at least look like the thing I'm trying to draw. Thomas, though... bless him. His artistic range starts and ends with heroic stick figures that look as if they desperately want to be erased and set free.
At first, I tried not to watch him struggle with the pencil. Just quick side glances, biting my lip to keep from smiling, then looking back at shading the curve of the mug. But Jimmy was doing the same, pretending to be absorbed in his own sketch while very obviously keeping one eye on his father's masterpiece-in-distress. I caught the corners of Jimmy's mouth twitching like he was fighting back a grin.
Thomas frowned at his paper like it had personally offended him. He turned it slightly, then back again, squinting as though maybe the drawing might improve if seen from a different angle. He erased something, drew it again, erased it once more, then let out a sigh so dramatic it almost deserved its own soundtrack.
Finally, with the tragic resignation of a man announcing bad news to a kingdom, he set his pencil down and cleared his throat. "I don't think... it's good," he said gravely.
For one perfect heartbeat, we all tried to keep our faces straight, and then Jimmy cracked first, a quick, surprised bark of laughter that set everything off. I followed, helpless, my shoulders shaking so hard I nearly smudged my drawing. It wasn't the thin,polite laughter I'd been used to these past months, but the real, messy kind that spilled out and made my eyes sting a little.
Even Thomas couldn't keep his serious face; he ducked his head, shoulders trembling with silent laughter, eyes softer and brighter than they'd been in ages. "I warned you both," he managed between chuckles, still trying to sound dignified and failing spectacularly.
Jimmy, trying to catch his breath, wiped at his eyes and teased, "Dad, is that supposed to be the mug, or... like... an alien?"
Thomas peered at his own sketch and deadpanned, "It's... abstract."
"Oh, so modern art," I teased, wiping laughter tears from under my lashes. "Very sophisticated."
He leaned back in his chair, surrendering completely. "I was going for 'fox mug,' but apparently, I've invented a new species instead."
For a few minutes, the kitchen felt light in a way it hadn't in so long. Just the three of us, pencils and laughter, smudged eraser bits littering the table, and something soft and stubborn blooming between us—like hope, but funnier and warmer.
At that moment, it didn't matter whose drawing was better or worse. What mattered was Jimmy smiling despite himself, Thomas looking at us like he couldn't quite believe we were all still here, and me realizing, with a quiet, almost shy happiness, that we were building something new—one crooked fox mug and ridiculous stick figure at a time.
*******
Few weeks later, our counselor gave us another exercise to do every day.
"Because you started loving each other as kids," she said gently, folding her hands on her lap, "you keep slipping back into those younger versions of yourselves—carrying the same hopes, the same habits, and yes... the same fears. But you're not those people anymore. Life has stretched you, bruised you, changed you in ways neither of you could have predicted. And sometimes, your love didn't quite keep up with that change."
She let that thought settle, her gaze moving softly between us.
"That's why I want to offer you something simple but not easy," she continued. "Every day, I want you to set aside fifteen minutes. Find a place in your home that feels cosy, familiar—a couch, a corner of the garden, even the foot of your bed at night. Sit together, just the two of you. Phones away, no distractions."
She paused, her voice soft but steady.
"Then, take turns. Each of you share one beautiful memory from your past together, something that still makes you smile, something that matters, even if it seems small. Then, offer each other one small promise for the future. Nothing grand, nothing to fix everything overnight."
Her eyes warmed. "The point isn't perfection. It's presence. Keep it honest. Keep it gentle. Keep it real. Because love doesn't always move in grand gestures; it grows in small, deliberate moments."
She leaned back slightly, a faint smile on her face. "Do this every day. Every night, if you can. Let the practice itself become part of your story. Let it remind you: you're not who you were at sixteen, or twenty-five. But you're still here."
So we did. One memory. One promise. Every night. We took turns, trading the past and future in small handfuls, like shells passed between children on a quiet beach.
Thomas went first on the same day,
"I remember you waiting outside my dorm the day Beth left. You didn't ask anything. You just sat with me on that freezing bench and held my hand. You let me be silent until I could speak."
Then, softly:"I promise I'll never rush your silence. When things hurt, I'll wait beside you.
The next night, it was my turn.
"Remember when you made me that playlist during my first awful student job? And every song had a little voice note from you. You said, 'I can't sit beside you at work, but maybe this will help.'"
