How could I? Doing that would mean I’d have to give up my thin thread of hope that there was still a chance I could wake up the next morning and find Finn sitting on the couch watching SportsCenter, pouring bowl after bowl of Golden Grahams into the same sweet, lukewarm milk. It would mean I’d have to face the stillness of his bedroom, knowing that the clothes hanging in the closet would never be worn again, the football on his dresser never tossed absently between his hands while he pretended to listen to me talk.
So I didn’t say any good-byes. I just sat there on our bench, like we’d done together so many times before, until the first stars twinkled in the dusky purple sky. But there by myself, in the unfolding coolness of the evening, those times with Finn seemed impossibly far away. I stayed anyway, watching star after star blink distant and impassive like nothing had changed, and I tried to tell myself the same thing Finn had told me on the nights I missed our parents the most. He’d bring me to this bench, where we could see their headstones, and tell me that looking up at the stars was a way to look right back into the past—back to when our mom tucked us in each night and our dad chased away bad dreams and we all ate biscuits and gravy for breakfast every Sunday.
He’d say it was true because by the time the light from those stars twinkled all the way down to us, it was years and years old. He figured that when we sat side by side watching the night sky stretch endless and sparkling above us, our parents were there with us too, because it was the same light that had shone down on them their whole lives. Back then, I’d believed it with everything in me.
But not tonight. Tonight I was sitting there alone, watching the stars blur in and out of focus, trying to feel something besides the crushing loneliness of the cemetery. He couldn’t be gone. I needed him too much. I needed him for all the little ways he’d make me feel better whenever I was sad or upset or lost.
He hated when I cried, and so he’d do his best to distract me however he could. When we were little, that meant riding me on his handlebars down to the Stop-N-Go for candy. As we got older, it meant taking me out to the garage with a Coke, so he could work on his car while I leaned against it, handing him tools and telling him how so and so gave me a dirty look or how sure I was that no boy was ever gonna like me. If it was really bad, he’d let me tag along with him and Rusty for burgers or give me and Lilah the car for the night so we could go see a movie. They were all small things, really. But I knew I’d always have him to tell me what to say or how to do something or which direction to go in. He was my constant and my guide. Without him, I was beyond lost.
By the time I got home, Aunt Gina was asleep on the couch, still in her funeral clothes, and the house was silent. In the kitchen, I opened the fridge, though I had no intention of eating. Inside, it was bursting with the foil-covered casseroles and lasagnas people had brought over because that’s what you do when someone dies. Which was a nice gesture, but I hadn’t felt much like eating since the notification officer and chaplain had knocked on our door to inform us that Finn had been killed in action, that they were deeply sorry, and that arrangements were being made to fly his remains home.
His remains. You’d think they’d be trained to say something different.
I shut the fridge and stood in the middle of the kitchen, listening to the clock tick away the seconds. The answering machine blinked one new message, and I knew it would be Lilah, calling to see if she could come over one last time before she left for school. She’d put off leaving for her college orientation as soon as I got news about Finn, and she’d taken up her post as my best friend and caretaker since then.
If I wanted company, she came over and we watched stupid movies or flipped through endless issues of Us Weekly and People until I could fall asleep. If she could tell I needed a little time, she dropped by with dinner her mom had made, enough for Aunt Gina and me, then came back the next day, ready for whatever mood I was in. A few times she just sat on my bed and cried with me, but really I knew she was crying for me. She had a certain kind of empathy not many people possess. She’d done the same when we were four years old and I had just lost my parents. She felt my pains like they were her own, and I did the same for her.
I had no way to tell her how much all of this meant and how much I was gonna miss her when we headed in opposite directions on the map. And I couldn’t tell her how leaving for Austin and my dream college suddenly felt as meaningless as the days that stretched out in front of me, empty and full at the same time with Finn’s death. He’d been the one to show me UTA in the first place when I tagged along on one of his football recruiting trips. I had no idea I’d fall head over heels for it, but I did. I didn’t even bother to apply anywhere else, because I was so sure that school was where I belonged. Only now, I wasn’t sure of anything. How was I supposed to go off to college and start a new life when my brother’s had just ended so abruptly? It seemed wrong.
But I couldn’t tell Lilah any of this, because you’re supposed to be happy when you go off to college—excited, elated, all of those words that mean you’re about to do something big and amazing. And I wanted her to be, at least. It was finally time for us to get out of town and go start our lives for real, and she deserved to be happy about it. I couldn’t talk to her tonight, before she left. I wouldn’t be able to hold it together. She knew me well enough to know how much I cared about her, and I knew her well enough to know she’d understand. I promised myself that when I was ready and she was gone and settled into school, I’d sit down and write her a good, long letter and tell her everything.