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“No!” Chris’s agitated voice bounces off pictures hung in the hallway and rises through the smoke of whatever she’s cooking on the stove the second Street opens their apartment door. She glances back at him and offers a weary smile, but it falls immediately and she turns back to the food. “I don’t care. I’ve said no already. That’s not going to change, and if you guys can’t leave it alone, then I’ll make it easy on all of us and won’t see you until after. Your choice.”
Eyes widening, he toes off his boots and hangs up his jacket, and heads to the bedroom to set down his backpack and change. If he’s lucky, she’ll be off the phone by the time he comes back, and not in too bad of a mood to fill him in.
A photo of them on the beach catches his eye where it sits on the dresser, quelling his own anxiety that started to roil hearing her in distress. One of her rare public displays of affection, with her lips on his jaw and her hands covering his as they locked around her waist. He keeps staring as memory pulls a shirt and sweats out of his drawers, and he throws one on her side of the bed for later.
His socked footsteps are soft, and years of police work have tuned his hearing into a fine instrument that picks up nothing more than sizzling as he nears the kitchen. Suspicions confirmed with the sight of her phone on the counter, he steps behind her, just like the picture, and rests his head on her shoulder. Her body relaxes into his like it’s been waiting for him all day.
“You okay?” He murmurs softly.
She sighs, something heavy that trails all the way down her back and calves until it bleeds out onto the floor.
“Fine. Family stuff.” Is her response, not clipped enough that he knows she’ll snap if he continues, but a clear warning to tread lightly.
“Anything I can help with?”
Clicking off the stove, Chris doesn’t move yet. She turns her head to look up at him—a thin layer of tears making her eyes shine, although none are falling, and a tight-lipped smile—and shakes her head.
“Not really, but thank you. Are you hungry? Sausage and veggies.”
He’s already salivating, but leaves a kiss on her cheek before he unravels his arms.
“Starving. Go sit down; I got the plates.”
An invisible force keeps her feet glued to the ground as all of her neurons work to keep her from really starting to cry. Street keeps moving like there’s no wreck to be seen. After a moment, her lungs allow her to take in a deep breath, and she crosses the short distance to sit down, joined first by two plates, and then by him and two waters. Her own anxiety continues to build, she can feel it like the smoke on your throat from the first drag of a cigarette, and the words careen out of her.
“The twentieth anniversary of my mom’s death is in six weeks.”
“Oh,” his fork stops midair, and he debates reaching across the table, but her arms are crossed, body hidden beneath a blank knit cardigan. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She spits, shaking her head. “My family’s doing a memorial—which they do every year—but this year it’s bigger. Inviting more of the extended family that were at the funeral, bringing out the old photos, all of it. Sarzo started planning it a few weeks ago, and I told him the first time they mentioned it that I wasn’t going, but—”
“But they keep asking.” Street fills in, and then finishes his bite when she nods. Her stomach turns too fast to even think about eating, arms unfurling just to push the plate closer to him and grab her water.
“Yeah. Tomas just asked me about. I don’t know if they asked him to, or he did on his own, but either way, it means they’re talking about it—me.”
“No judgment,” Street starts, blood going cold at her narrowed eyes, “but there’s no chance you’d even stop by? I get it, but… just to get them off your back?”
Chris runs her tongue over her teeth, struggles to bring her eyes to his from where they’re locked on the grain of the table. If she reaches for her water again, he’ll see her hands shaking, and the threat of what will happen if he does is more than enough to keep her from allowing even a breath of tension out of her muscles.
“No.” She says definitively. And then repeats it once she finds the courage to meet his worried gaze. “No! I’ve never gone! They know how I feel. I don’t even understand why they still ask when it always leads to a fight.”
Clearing her throat, she hopes the pressure from the heel of her hand underneath her eyes will keep any crying at bay.
“Whatever. It’s nothing. They’ll get over it, and if I don’t see them until Halloween, then I don’t.”
“Chris—” Street starts, unsure of where to go, but with a force tugging at his core that urges him on. She stops him before he gets the chance.
“It’s just how things are, Street. It’ll be fine.”
“Okay. Dinner’s delicious,” he changes the subject, pushes her plate closer. “You should have some.”
Street wakes up and finds himself reaching for a body he knows isn’t there, and judging by how cold Chris’s side of the bed is, hasn’t been there for a while. Sighing, he abandons their covers for the late chill of their apartment, the temperature dropping steadily as summer has given way to early October. He hears the buzz of the Keurig the closer he gets to the kitchen, and sees her bathed in a ghostly, holy yellow light when he turns the corner.
Tattooed fingers wrap around the handle of a blue mug as the water stops. Though he doesn’t know what the tag reads he guesses it’s chamomile, and he eyes the honey that was more than half full when they went to bed, now less than a third left.
“Been up long?” He softly breaks the silence.
Chris’s eyes cut from the tea to Street’s form, leaning nonchalantly against the cabinets, although he can see how stiff she is.
“Just a few minutes,” she says, in the same tone. He plays along.
“That your second or third cup?”
Looking back at the mug, she swirls the tea until a tiny whirlpool forms and its heat leeches into her skin.
“Second,” she tells the truth.
“Nightmares again?”
“Yeah.”
“About your mom?”
Chris freezes with her lips on the edge of the mug. It’s bitter in her mouth now, and she sets it down on their counter with more force than she means to, but manages to keep the razor edge out of her voice.
“I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t the question I asked.”
“They happen sometimes.”
“Baby,” Street’s voice drops to just above a whisper as he rounds the island. He crowds her against the counter, but with plenty of space to let her breathe, and places gentle hands on her jaw. Thumbs swiping the delicate painting of purple and blue underneath her eyes, he sees the fractures in her irises that have only worsened since the call with Tomas weeks ago. Before anything else, he kisses her. He tries to pour all of his love and concern for her into it, leaving no stones of her doubt unturned. When he pulls back and takes her in again, her shoulders are slightly more relaxed, and he speaks.
“They’ve been happening for almost three weeks. Please talk to me.”
His words hold no hesitation, and tears line her eyes. Sniffling, she averts her gaze to the ceiling to try to blink them back as she considers the merits of telling him everything. Her heart drums louder in her chest at the thought, but she glances at him and knows there’s no one else she’d tell. Knows their apartment is the safest place she’s ever had, second to only his arms.
Chris slides down the cabinets so she’s sitting on the cool kitchen tile, knees pulled up to her chest and arms wrapped around them. He follows without question or complaint, draping an arm over her shoulder to give her some stability. It feels like they’re in a bubble, one he wishes she could give herself the comfort of more often when she leans further into him.
“They always come around… around the anniversary. It’s on the fourteenth. Not usually this early, but with everything they’re doing this year, I think my brain is just extra… I don’t know.”
“It’s a lot.” He fills in the gaps, her hair tangling when she nods against his shoulder.
“Yeah,” she exhales heavily. “They’re worse than I’m used to. Sharper, almost?”
A shudder runs through her, her body desperately trying to shake out the glass splinters the dreams cut into her, and he spreads his palm to cover more of her skin but doesn’t talk. The door has been opened for her to talk and she’s got one foot through; she’ll take the next step when she’s ready. Silence grows between them but it isn’t so thick it chokes her, and she feels her heartbeat settle the longer they sit, the shadows on the wall losing their sinister angles.
“It’s not just the accident. The few days before were awful.”
Her throat goes dry as the desert as her memories start to usurp reality the second she dares to voice them. Her nails dig into her arms hard enough to leave deep red marks behind in her attempt to stay grounded, her mind screaming at her: Stop! Alert! Danger!
“Hey, hey,” Street interrupts, noticing the shakiness of her breathing and the tension thrumming through her, concerned that he’d made a grave misstep. “It’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it.”
But she does. If she doesn’t get it out now, it’s never coming. She chokes back a cough, reins herself in enough to open her mouth, even if the words are almost inaudible.
“I still haven’t figured out what set her off. For the two days before, there wasn’t a moment I saw her that she didn’t have a bottle in her hand.” Her fingers find the spot that still burns whenever anyone even brushes against her too hard. “She’d never gotten physical before then, just yelled, broke things… I remember getting home from school and all I wanted was to go to my room to change and then go to Sarzo’s, but she grabbed me by the arm the second I was in the door.”
His heart and lungs cease to function as her life unfolds before him, every word reflective of his own worst years, and it all makes him hold her even tighter.
“She was screaming. Ranting about how sick she was of raising me, that she didn’t want to see me unless it was to apologize for whatever I apparently did. She yanked me down the hall and shoved me into my room so hard I hit the wall. She smashed a tequila bottle against my mirror. They both shattered. Everything on my dresser was covered in it. And then she slammed the door and I was just there, frozen. It’s always how the dreams start.”
“I’m so sorry,” Street breathes softly, heart shattered and disbelief blowing out his eyes. Shaking her head, she hides her face in her knees like she wanted to hide then but couldn’t. He pets her hair and down her back to soothe her, the dim light making the kitchen seem bigger than it is, making him feel like they’re smaller than they are.
“And then we’re in the car, and she’s still saying those things,” Chris whispers, something uncertain in her tone that he can’t decipher just yet. “I’m in the backseat, screaming for her to stop. Sometimes I’m standing outside watching it, helpless. The worst is when I’m in the other car.”
“The one she hit?”
“Ninety five Chrysler Sebring.”
His brows furrow and his hands still. A familiar, insidious discomfort sticks in his chest that he remembers vividly after his dad died. She confirms before he asks.
“My Uncle got the accident report. And after I got on the force, I cashed in a favor to get the full file. There were pictures.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah,” she scoffs, full of disgust. “It didn’t help any. I made copies of them just to burn over my sink. Gave the file back and tried to forget I ever saw it. Now… Helena and Sarzo have no idea.”
“That you got the full report?”
“No,” she shakes her head and swipes roughly under her eyes, smearing the mascara that refused to budge when she took off her makeup what feels like years ago. “About the days before. Everyone knew her drinking was out of control, but I don’t think anyone thought she would cross the lines she did. To them… she wasn’t a saint, but she’s not who she is to me, to them, either; I felt like telling anyone would just make it an even worse nightmare. She died on impact. Her head hit the windshield and the force of the accident shattered it, and when I saw the photos all I could think of was that stupid fucking mirror.”
A broken sob courses through her whole body before it escapes, and leaves her shaking like a leaf in the wind. Acting on instinct, Street pulls her onto his lap. He tucks her head underneath his chin and presses kiss after kiss to her hair while his hands trace every inch of her he can reach.
He’s always wondered about the parts of her family she never told him about, namely her birth parents. Wanting to know every piece of the mosaic of her, even the rusted or chipped parts he watches her try so hard to hide. But now he’s drawn speechless by the breadth of it all, only able to lay his cheek against her hair and hope he’s enough to keep her together until he thinks of what to say.
“I was so angry at her.” Chris says, low and gravelly, from where she’s swallowed by the fabric of his t-shirt. “For drinking and driving. For killing those people. Christ, for leaving me, even as bad as it was. But I was angry at myself, too, for protecting her. And I was afraid that if I got to the casket with that rose sticking me in the palm, I would start screaming, and I wouldn’t be able to stop.”
He turns the words over until they stretch and dissolve and morph into an entirely different memory. He thinks of a handwritten eulogy in a box somewhere in the back of their closet that crumpled in his shaking grip, the ink running from his tears.
“Then maybe that’s what you need to do.”
“What?”
“Go to her grave and scream at her. Say exactly what you never got the chance to until it’s all out of you.”
“No,” she shakes her head, voice growing firm. “Street, I—“
But his tone stays soft, full of understanding that’s never once changed in the years they’ve known one another.
“I’m sure the cemetery doesn’t stir up great feelings for you. But in twenty years, you’ve never had the chance to get the closure that you need. Give yourself that; you helped me give it to myself with my mom, and I can’t explain the difference it made, but it does, Chris. I promise. I don’t mean to pressure you, I just hate to see you hurting like this.”
His words sink into her like a seed. Tears soak into his shoulder as she looks up through her lashes at his jaw.
“My family.” She says, but he’s ready to fight any obstacle, no matter how scary or familiar.
“Doesn’t have to know, or be there. You said they always go around ten and are home by one? We’ll go at two-thirty.”
Like prey scanning the horizon for predators, Chris unfurls herself from Street’s chest to find his eyes. They’re shining with truth and love, and concern, and a sense of security blankets her that’s too strong to fight.
“Okay.” She whispers.
A proud smile comes over him, small but strong in the lost hours of night. His hand rests on her bicep, thumb running over the muscle; she knows he has to know how much it’s holding her up.
“Yeah?” He confirms. Unable to find another place to avert her gaze, she holds his, and nods.
“Yeah. I—Can we go back to bed?”
He kisses her forehead and helps her to her feet. The tea has long gone cold, but she takes a long drink and lets the honey insulate her. Down the hall, her arms don’t budge from where they’re wrapped around herself like a protective wall, but he keeps her steady with a hand on her back.
After she’s settled, he pulls the blankets up to her shoulders and slides in next to her. It isn’t often she sleeps facing him, almost close enough to share a pillow, but tonight she is. He kisses her forehead and rubs her back, not falling asleep until she has.
Gray clouds hang overhead that are heavy but not so dark they block pockets of sun from lighting up the world. Fall is confidently settling in, a chill growing between the tombstones that vortexes directly around her, seeming to push her onward. Wet grass and gravel crunch underneath her feet as they follow the marked path she’s only ever seen dreary photos of.
The grave itself is easy to spot once they arrive, surrounded by bright, fresh flowers, no doubt placed this morning by her family. Otherwise, it’s unassuming. A name and two dates.
“Oh,” Chris exhales sharply, boots stopping short and gripping Street’s tighter.
The light of her memory will guide us. A loving friend, sister, and mother.
“What—oh.” Street finds the epitaph, his own breath taken, too. His fingers curl around hers even as she squeezes tight enough to break them, eyes cataloging her every feature. “They didn’t tell you?”
Unable to speak through the tears that flood into her eyes and stick in her throat, she shakes her head. Her body feels heavy, fuzzy, like it could give it out from underneath her with one wrong gust of wind. The cold catches her teeth when her lips part, but no sound follows.
She wants to leave. To take one small step backwards, and then one large step, and then turn around and never glance over her shoulder again. She doesn’t know what’s stopping her.
You didn’t come this far just to turn around .
A small voice. Hidden deep beneath years of expertly laid and reinforced armor, that she began to build the day a police officer pulled her out of class. And then it says Street’s words, her words, and she knows she’s only talking to herself.
She takes a moment to feel the ground firmly beneath her feet and the wind blowing on her neck and the back of her hands. Street’s skin is soft, calloused where it presses against hers, and she squeezes his hand tightly one last time before dropping it altogether. Her first step closer is small, like it’s a monster she has to be hesitant to get too close to.
“Hey, Mom,” she whispers, voice cracking. The words she planned to say escaped her the second she saw the engraving, and she blinks to kill time as she swims through her own head to find them. “Um, this is Street.”
Reaching back for him, Street steps to her side immediately, protectively, and it settles her.
“Jim Street. My partner. I’m sorry you’ll never get to meet him; he’s one of the best things to ever happen to me.”
Silently, he leans down to kiss her head, the plastic around the small bouquet of roses crinkling as he does.
With the introduction out of the way, Chris’s confidence grows, and she takes another step closer even as tears start to fall.
“I’m sorry for a lot of things, Mom. I’m the one who has to be, because you aren’t here. And I don’t know if you were ever sorry, even when you were alive.”
A drizzle begins. Not enough to soak them, but enough to make Chris feel thirteen again. Defiant, she stands up taller.
“I never told them what you did. You broke their hearts when you died. All anyone kept telling me was how wonderful you were and how much you loved me despite your disease. And I didn’t tell any of them the truth. I kept protecting you and it made me so angry because you never deserved it. You—you hurt me, mom!”
The words start pouring out of her now, dislodging from where they’ve sat dormant in her heart for decades.
“You hurt me because you were selfish. Over and over for years, and blamed me for it every chance you got. I was alone even when you were alive. And then I had to go to school and grow up as the girl whose mom murdered four people. I still feel like people are looking at me every day because of that—because of you! Every fucking day, I feel that, Mom, and maybe I will until I die.”
Her legs tingle underneath her, body supported more by Street than she’s able to tell from where she’s locked in the in-between, her mother’s face clear in her head even as heavier rain obscures her vision. She reaches for the bouquet, and he hands it over without question.
Cold mud soaks through her as she sinks to the ground. Her hands grip at either side of the tombstone, fingers stiff but hot life rushing through her veins and in the labored breaths that bounce back into her face.
“But I’m done. I’m done letting this guilt— your guilt —control my life. I’m done apologizing for you and hiding from you because of what you did to me. Not the other way around.”
The tears flow freely now. One hand breaks its grip to set down the flowers, rain pelting the plastic but the white petals still pristine underneath the thin protection. He can’t see her eyes, but he can picture her expression. Pulling her shoulders back, her voice is lighter than it’s felt in a long time.
“I hope you’re somewhere better. I hope you’re better. But I hope I never see you again. I won’t, not here. Goodbye, Mom.”
Her fingers glide over the smooth rock, over the indentations of the letters and numbers, until her hands fall back to her side. A sense of finality washes over her with each drop of rain, but it’s a double-edged sword, razor sharp with all her unrealized childhood hopes and needs. The telltale feeling of her lungs rattling grows in her chest and abdomen, threatening to overtake her completely. She reaches a blind hand backwards and grabs on hard when Street takes it, to ground herself. Mud cakes her lower legs as she gets to her feet.
He stays silent as she comes to herself and finds her footing. The world stretches out between and around them, the dead and the living in equal measure, and Chris finds herself frozen in it, body yearning to turn towards his while her gaze stays glued to the grave. She closes her eyes, but no voice emerges through the fog to accept or deny her, and she can only stand in the haze so long before she has to open her eyes and snap back to reality.
When she does, when she finds Street’s face, full of pain for her, underlined with mutual understanding, but still alight with love, the tendrils of whatever other power was holding her slip away. She takes a half step towards him, cognizant of every little rip and tear she feels pulling at her insides, like her desperate organs haven’t yet decided where they’re going to settle. Another labored breath pushes her further away from the past, towards him.
Then she’s in his air. His eyes searching her face, his hand soft and strong in hers. He falls in line with her as she takes a step, and then a second, but is already turning to catch her when it sinks in and she falters completely.
“You’re okay,” Street promises her, as she begins to weep. She grips both his forearms like a lifeline, bracing herself against the world once more, different but still so much stronger than she is—than she feels. Garbled pleas escape her, incoherent prayers for what, she doesn’t know, and she can only dig her nails in harder.
Without another word, he pulls her into his arms, wishing nothing more that he knew how to take this all away from her. He locks her in an unwavering hold while the wind roars around them and the ground shakes from the unrelenting thunder that signals the new depths of storm opening up above them. There’s no use trying to protect either of them from the weather, so he keeps one hand steady on her back while the other cradles her neck, fingertips gentle where they curl around her delicate bones. Her arms come around his shoulders and cling there, and she buries her face in his collarbone.
“I’ve got you,” he swears. He can’t help but cast a glance at the tombstone from where his chin rests on her head, a volatile rage swirling in his stomach, but it dissipates at her whimper. “You did it.” He reminds both of them.
The next layer of clouds crack open above them. His lips are soft on her forehead, raindrops rolling off their leather jackets and soaking through them. The water is cool on their necks and clings to his lashes, but he refuses to close his eyes and let something happen to her.
“I’m so proud of you,” he murmurs, unsure if she’s able to hear him.
Chris doesn’t know how long she cries, her tears hot on her face and oblivious to the world outside their intertwined bodies and the interminable weight of a ghost behind them. Years of memories play on in her mind, stacking one on top of the other until they start to crumble underneath the weight of one another, their edges darkening.
But her bones feel strong again when she lifts her head from his shoulder, although he doesn’t let go of her yet in case she falls. Neither speak, not until she casts a glance over her shoulder at the mess of mud and flower petals surrounding the grave.
Just a grave, she knows. Not a monster. Not anything that can hurt her anymore.
“Thank you,” she whispers, sniffling the last of her tears away and looking up at him. He’s smiling, sweet and gentle, and he kisses her forehead before her lips. Offering what she can in return, she leans into his warm touch when he cradles her cheek—his skin savoring the feel of her against him—and nods when he asks if she’s okay.
“I think I’m ready to go now.”
“Okay,” he says, letting go only to intertwine their fingers. He follows her lead to her truck, where they throw their soaked jackets into the back seat and slide in. It kicks to life, blessedly warm air blowing through the vents, and he puts his palm in hers when she sets her hand on the console.
He often has to force himself not to stare at her but, just this once, he allows it. Takes in the curve of her forehead and nose, the line of her lips, the cut of her jaw as she’s in profile to him, and doesn’t drop his gaze even when it’s obvious she knows he’s looking.
“We can stop at Bonchon for food before we head home if you want?”
“No.” Chris says firmly, and then shakes out her spikes and softens her edges, throwing him a whisper of a smile. “I, um, I was actually thinking of going to Helena and Sarzo’s? Some of my other family might still be there, too. But not for too long, and I can drop you at home if—“
“Of course I want to come.” He finishes her thought. “You sure you don’t want to swing by for dry clothes, though?”
“No,” Chris shakes her head, putting the gear in reverse to actually back out of the lot. “If we go home, I won’t want to leave again.
“Okay,” he squeezes, gestures her on with their connected hands and a million-dollar smile. “Where you lead.”
The rain has stopped by the time Chris puts on the brakes at the curb. Sarzo’s truck sits in the driveway, Helena’s car next to it with others trailing down the street, and she exhales heavily.
“You don’t have to do this.” He says softly, certainty in his tone. She looks over at him, and then down at their hands. Seeing the house, knowing her family is all inside, makes her feel smaller than she has in a long time. He squeezes her hand back. “But I know that you can.”
The words settle her easier than they should. With his encouragement, Chris cuts the engine and pops her door open, feet finding the pavement. Faint conversations become audible the closer they get, a sign the gathering has moved back outside since the storm has passed, and she forgoes the front door for the back gate. Her fingers flutter over the uneven wood, struggling to make it to the latch, and the other hand takes Street’s in a vice grip. She feels his eyes on her like a laser, poised to say something but she knows he won’t unless she asks.
“They’re hurting, too.” She says, unsure which one of them she’s talking to. “They lost someone, too. I should be here for them.”
Setting aside his thoughts about it, he finds her hairline with his lips, and presses as long of a kiss as he can to the spot. She lets it sink in through her skin and carry in her bloodstream to her heart, and once it makes it, she’s grounded. The latch is underneath her fingers and she’s wiggling it through where it always gets stuck, and then they step from the front yard into the back. Someone has started playing music, an old song she only vaguely remembers filling up the background of her childhood, and they follow the side of the house until it runs out.
“Chrissy?”
The shock in Sarzo’s tone is distracting enough that everyone else’s disbelieving looks can’t overwhelm her, but next to her, it’s hard for Street to process how abruptly the world stops for the people in the backyard. Like everything within the fence—flowers and beer bottles and the large photo underneath the patio awning— sharpen, while everything else blurs out. Sarzo stands from the table and crosses the yard cautiously, Chris’s knuckles growing whiter around Street’s the closer her Uncle comes.
Street sees the change in Sarzo’s eyes before Chris, takes in Helena’s hopeful gaze a few feet back, but refuses to let go until she does.
But all it takes is one final step, one breathy, yet relieved, “Oh my god, Chrissy ,” before her hand slips from his as her and Sarzo envelop one another in a hug that’s been waiting for years.
Sarzo closes his eyes, features more relaxed than Street’s ever seen, as slow tears roll down his cheeks and into Chris’s hair. A few unshed tears from the graveyard make themselves known, too. Helena’s hand on his shoulder startles him out of where he’s looking at them, though his eyes instinctually keep searching for her in his periphery even as he turns towards her Aunt.
“Hey,” Street says, unsure of what else to fill the space with.
“Thank you,” Helena responds, voice laden with sincerity, and clasps his hand only to pull him in for a hug instead. “For whatever—no, for everything you’ve done.”
A cold blush paints his cheeks when they separate, a nervous shrug that catches the chill in the air.
“It’s all her.” He counters. “I went with, but she’s the one who faced it all.”
“You don’t need to tell me how brave my niece is, Jim,” Helena pats his shoulder, and then, after glancing over to where Chris and Sarzo are still connected, gives him a knowing smile, eyes sparkling, if sad. “But this wound has been opened for a long time, and I know we wouldn’t be starting to close it now if it weren’t for you. You brought her back to us, and vice versa. Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” Street nods small, tone void of any usual arrogance as he joins Helena in looking at the pair and is struck, again, by admiration and awe that renders him speechless. He turns to hug Helena tightly. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
He breathes in her perfume as she tightens the hug, her hand running up and down his back. When they part, she’s smiling at him like she’s proud, and it settles in his heart, growing until the only thing keeping it caged is his ribs.
“Thank you, Sweetheart. Her life was many things, but we loved her. We’ll tell you more about her, both of you, when it’s right.”
It’s hard not to imagine how much they’ll love or miss her when they know the truth, but all he does is flash a small smile and whisper an okay, leaning into Helena’s touch as his gaze falls back to Chris. All he knows is he’ll be by her side whenever she decides to tell them whatever needs to be said.
A numbness Chris never realized held her so firmly in its grasp begins to thaw the moment Sarzo’s arms go around her, like the sun finally escaping the clouds completely, even after she’d gotten used to the colors as they were without it.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs against his shoulder. Now that she knows what’s been missing, guilt for depriving them of it creeps in, but it’s quickly chased away by Sarzo’s warm, tearful voice.
“No, Sweetie, you have nothing to be sorry for.” He holds her like he’s afraid she’ll slip through his grasp and escape through the gate. “I’m just so glad you’re here. We all are.”
She feels him kiss her head and leans into him harder, climbing over the debris from the wall her younger self could never quite demolish. The photo of her mom catches her eye when she opens them, her breath catching, but she refuses to let the lingering fear and resentment drive her away anymore.
“I didn’t know if you’d be mad if I came.” Chris admits, a mix of shame and uncertainty coloring her tone. Sarzo pulls back, twin pairs of brown eyes looking at one another, and shakes his head.
“Never. There’s a lot we have to talk about,” he says, and she feels equal parts herself and thirteen as she nods, unsure of how they’ve seemingly ended up on the same page even after years of her slamming the book closed. The weight in his tone brings her back, matched only by the sureness in his eyes. “But you will never be unwelcome in this home. Whatever it is you have to say, we will listen, and we will hear you. I promise you that.”
Home. Chris turns it over in her head. This home . The one with yellow siding that’s faded with age, with a front porch swing older than she is, and wallpaper full of memories enough to fill all of Los Angeles. The one that, even before it was permanent, was more of a home than the small room shared with two older cousins and the closet full of their hand-me-downs. And, the one that, when it was necessary, took her in without being asked. Painted her bedroom walls purple and hung her report cards on the fridge. Held her on the rare nights everything became too much for her to handle and she let herself be taken care of, kissing her forehead and wiping away her tears and singing until she was asleep again.
The home that has always loved her unconditionally; the first one that ever did.
“Me, too,” she whispers, wiping underneath her eyes and letting her hands fall back to her side. “Thank you.”
Smiling softly, Sarzo leans forward and kisses her forehead. It’s a welcome feeling, and she grins at him, the tightness draining from it until it’s more teeth than lips. Looking over his shoulder, the rest of her family comes into focus, the sun starting to peek through.
“Come on, Sweetie,” he notices her apprehension and slings an arm around her shoulder. “We’re all here for you, too.”
Taking a deep breath, she falls in step with him, but throws a glance over her shoulder to see the sunlight gleaming off Street’s face and Helena standing next to him. He lights up when they make eye contact, offering a dimpled smile and wink before saying something to her Aunt about joining them.
“Aunt Chrissy!” Mirabel’s voice rings out, her legs carrying her to Chris as fast as they can. Sarzo holds her tight for another moment before letting her go, and she drops to her knees just as Mirabel throws her arms around her neck. Instantly, she relaxes, her hands tangling in Mirabel’s hair. “I’m so glad you’re here!”
“Me, too, poquito.” She smiles, and presses a kiss to her forehead. Her heart finds her home in her chest again. It beats stronger still when Street’s familiar hand falls to her shoulder, and she catches Helena and Sarzo to his side, beaming at her. “Me, too.”
They all are.