After the End (13 page)

“It is for me too,” he admitted, rubbing a thumb along my cheek. “It’s scary that I need you so much, and I know I can’t have all of you. That you’re still working through shit.” Brady kissed away the tears on my cheeks before wrapping me in a hug. “Just don’t shut me out again. Even if it’s terrifying, even if you’re so upset you can’t move, please, just let me in.”

After a moment I nodded, relief hitting me. I clung to him as tightly as he was holding me, pressing my face into his neck to kiss him there, to whisper a “Thank you” into his skin.

“What for?” he asked lowly.

I kissed him again instead of answering, gentle and sweet, bumping our noses together when we broke apart. “You never told me why you came.”

A little smile touched his lips. “Because you needed someone to.”

Huffing a laugh, I reached out, pushing some of his wayward curls off his forehead. “Thank you for not giving up,” I clarified.

He wrinkled his nose. “Don’t thank me for that. I… well, I don’t know
what
we are, but I care about you, Quinn. I think you care about me, too.”

“I do.” There was a lurch in my stomach as I said it, a guilty twist, but it was true. And I had spent the last several days hiding from it without much success. There was relief in Brady’s eyes when I finally let the words exist, when I gave them form and substance. Like he’d hoped but wasn’t sure.

“So, we don’t give up.” He shrugged, taking my hand in his. “Even when I want to shout. Even when it’s hard.”

“No giving up.” Gently I kissed his cheek. “I can do that.”

After a few moments, he pulled away. “I have to get back to work. I’m swamped with last-minute stuff and I have to spend the night cooking and—” He waved his hand, filling in the rest with an eye roll. “A thousand things.”

“Can I still come?” I asked, eyes going to the bag lying across my chair, the tux inside.

Brady’s expression softened. “If you want to,” he said, looking actually
nervous
for one of the first times I’d ever seen. “I’d like that. I’m going to be busy a lot, but I’ll have time to see you.”

“Are you going to save me a dance?” I teased.

He laughed then, nuzzling his forehead against mine. “They’re all already yours.”

I
N
THE
months after Aaron had died, I’d gone to the graveyard every day. Not because I’d thought he’d want me to—in fact, I was pretty damn sure he wouldn’t.

My heart
—he called me that, when we were close and still, when the world didn’t matter, when I painted and lost myself into the stories only I could see—
there is nothing in the ground other than the dust of our shared pasts. Nothing in the air other than the fog of our remembrances. History is for the living: it’s how we move forward, not how we stay back.

He loved that speech. He loved talking about honoring the past, about how everyone was a part of history.
Even me
, he’d say with that infectious grin, eyes dancing.
Especially you
. Because I was his heart and he was my darling and we were in love. I was his future and his history and his present, just as he was mine.

So I went to the graveyard, not because he’d want me to, but because that was as close to him as I could get. Because the moment of laying him in the ground was the last time he and I existed together. Now he was
history
and I was moving forward and neither of those two things made sense. I went and I sat on his grave like my own little Poe story.

It didn’t matter. He was never there. Aaron didn’t haunt his grave; he haunted my dreams, the corners of my apartment, the way the rain sounded against the window. The graveyard was quiet and still, utterly without him. But I went.

After half a year had passed, Tracy and Anna told me I needed to stop. Aaron couldn’t hear me there, couldn’t see me. If he stayed with me, it wasn’t in the shadows and the dirt of the ground. I believed them. I already knew where he wasn’t. So I stopped going so frequently.

Still, sometimes, my feet led me there. I missed him like a fire, like a pull on my gut. So I went and I sat with him because what else could I do?

History was what moved us forward. I didn’t want him to be history. I wanted our
present
again, our now.

I hadn’t been to see the grave since I met Brady. Since we shared kisses after being soaked in the rain. Maybe I knew, even then, what would happen when I woke up once more. What it meant that I had so cautiously reached out. Shame had kept me away, perhaps, and fear.

There is nothing in the ground other than the dust of our shared pasts.

That evening, I went to Aaron. To where I put him to rest, where I’d stood, shattered and desperate, and watched him lowered into the ground. He was at rest, here, but I was the opposite. Restless, needy, completely
without
, I went to his grave.

I laid flowers down, fussing over leaves that had blown against the headstone. “There,” I murmured to him, to the wind and the sky, to nothing at all. “There, that’s better.” His grave was clean again, fresh flowers almost garish against black polished stone. “That’s better now.”

It was quiet in that place. I could think. Only the dead were there to keep me company, after all, and they had nothing more to say.

“I’m not sure what to do.” I wasn’t sure how long I’d sat, only that I was cold now. Only that the clouds had rolled over the dying light of the sun. “It seemed so simple before, you know? It was you and me. It was only ever supposed to be you and me.”

My fingertips slid along the stone, tracing the outline of his name.

Aaron Paterson

Beloved

“I feel like if I could just… if I could only take a step
back
, you know?” I laughed, shaky and low, jaw so tight I felt my teeth ache. “Just one step backwards and it’d all be right again. Like you’re right there, behind me.”

There was no answer. The wind whipped around me, making miniature whirlwinds of leaves and sticks and dust. But I couldn’t hear his voice.

“But you’re not, are you?” My voice cracked and I shut my eyes against the sudden rush, the sick, swaying ache in my throat. “God, you’re not even
here
. You’re in that bed, where I lost you. You’re back there, two years ago, and I can’t go back there. I can’t ever get back to you.”

I rubbed my hand along the curve of his gravestone. I watched my fingers tremble against dark stone. “I love you.”

I’d said it a thousand times before, laughing or teasing or soft and still. In a hundred times a hundred ways, in mornings while we hurried around the kitchen, in the quiet space between kisses, in the sleepy, secret place under sheets and against his skin. It was a goodbye, said without thinking before we hung up the phone; it was a hello after a long day. It was our language, the two of us, the touchstone of a decade together. And not once, not ever, had I said it and not heard it back. No matter how upset, no matter how busy, no matter what else was going on, it was our call to one another. It was the voice that brought us home again.

I love you
.

I love you too
.

But now there was nothing. My words died in the air; they hung there in puffs of steam from my breath before falling into nothing.

Aaron couldn’t love me back. He wasn’t here. This was a marker, a place to lay my grief down. But it wasn’t him. He
wasn’t
any longer.

He had loved me until his last breath. Our last words had been that, just that, whispered with tears and desperate strength into the gasps of his dying.

I love you, my heart.

I love you too, my darling.

And then it’d been no more. He had loved me with his last strength, and I had loved him with everything in me. But he couldn’t love anymore. Or, rather, the love he had for me was not one that could be felt or seen or experienced. It didn’t make up a life.

Wherever souls went, wherever good, pure, brilliant people found rest, Aaron loved me. I had no doubt about that. But that love wasn’t here. It wasn’t in the ground, wasn’t in the walls of my apartment or the ghosts of what had once been. It was, it existed, but it wasn’t in his arms around me. It wasn’t the sound of my name on his lips. And it was no longer one step behind me, just out of my reach.

Aaron was gone.

And I remained.

Lying against the cold ground, face buried in dying grass, in leaves and earth, I cried. I wept for him, for what I’d lost. For a life that hadn’t been full enough, for that
one more day
we’d never had. He wouldn’t want me to. History was for the living, was how we moved forward, and there was nothing in the ground for me now. But I wanted him, still. I wanted nothing more than to wake up and have the nightmare be over.

When the last tears coated my cheeks, when I was only huffing out quiet breaths, exhausted, spent, I finally let go. God, it hurt. It hurt to even imagine that tomorrow there would be no ghosts. No past I was clinging to.

Then again, the ghosts weren’t real. The past was already beyond me. The only thing I’d been holding onto was pain, was that sick, sour guilt.

I finally moved. Brushing leaves off of me, eyes still red, throat still so tight and aching, I stood in front of Aaron’s grave.

“I’m never going to stop loving you,” I promised him. I promised myself.

Maybe that love could exist where his did. In that soft
after
, in the place where we’d find rest together. Maybe I could believe that.

I bent, kissing his name, pressing lips to cold marble and resting my forehead against the stone. “I love you, my darling,” I whispered.

I love you too, my heart
.

“I
LOOK
like an idiot.”

Standing behind me, Tracy rolled her eyes, smoothing her hands across my shoulders. “You look like someone who has a suit that didn’t come off the rack twelve years ago.” She turned me, fussing with the tie. “Don’t be nervous.”

“Why would I be nervous?” My voice, I was slightly ashamed to say, had ticked up into a register I normally didn’t reach. “I’m just going to a ball. Wearing a tux. To see a guy who I think I might be dating now, even though I’m crazy. Also, I will probably have to dance. This is, like, a three on the nerves scale. Right under yoga. Totally Zen, here.”

“You’re babbling,” Annabeth pointed out, finding the cufflinks I’d been certain had gotten eaten by Winston. Instead, the damn cat had apparently batted them under the dresser. Annabeth stood gracefully, taking one arm and helping me get the cuffs on straight. “You babble when you’re nervous.”

“You just hush,” I told her with a glower. Apparently it wasn’t very intimidating, though, as she just smiled at me and held out her hand expectantly for the other arm.

Tracy was messing with my hair now. She’d involved some kind of gel, and I already was pretty sure I was going to look like a twelve-year-old going to his first school dance. “Seriously, it’s going to be fine,” she assured me, brushing my hair back out of my face. “Brady will be busy working, so you can just relax and drink wine and watch all the fabulously rich people.”

Fidgeting, I turned from them to inspect myself in the mirror. With my hair held back with gel and the perfect fit of the suit, I almost didn’t recognize myself. I definitely couldn’t wear this getup to sell comic books. “What if he’s still mad at me?” I asked, voice so quiet, nervously playing with my tie.

“Then kiss him until he forgets about it,” Tracy advised me sensibly. “Or dance with him. It’s very hard to be angry at someone when there’s music and dancing and formal wear.”

“Is that a fact?” Anna was smiling, wrapping her arms around her wife’s waist, kissing her shoulder. “I’ll have to remember that the next time I forget to lock the back door.”

“I’m telling you, we’re going to wake up one morning to a hobo sleeping in our sunroom,” Tracy grumbled, but she was grinning, turning to catch Anna’s lips in a slow kiss.

They swayed together softly, beautiful and in love, and it almost hurt to look at them. But the ache was more bittersweet now. I’d had that once. The thing was, I was beginning to dare to hope I might find it again. I wanted to feel guilty about that. Instead, all I really felt was a twinge of nervous anticipation.

I got a white box out of the fridge and Tracy arched an eyebrow at me. “Did you seriously get him a corsage?” she asked, barely hiding a laugh. “Like you’re going to the prom?”

“You are a terrible person. Also, it’s a boutonniere,” I informed her archly. She started giggling again, Annabeth doing her best to remain straight-faced. I ignored them both. Crazy women.

“Come on, we’ll drop you off.” Tracy’s arm slipped in with mine, Anna on my other side, and we headed out, fumbling with coats and scarves against the chill. The night was clear and perfect, stars painted across velvet black. Shivering, I tucked the beautiful blue of my scarf—Brady’s scarf, really, but somewhere along the line I’d stopped thinking about it like that—tighter around my neck.