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Grace had become slightly restless after Richie died.
She kept having reoccurring nightmares about Richie dying. Almost every other night, the dream was exactly the same. Max chasing Richie down til he couldn’t breathe, then brutally battering him until he went completely still.
She would bolt upright in her bed, her heart hammering an erratic rhythm against her ribs, unable to breathe, tears spilling over as she wept for her brother. She would also began to sharply gasp for air if she couldn’t catch her breath, It was a loud, frantic noise—which would often wake up her parents because of how loudly she was hyperventilating in the middle of the night.
She began to stay at Paul’s house, which calmed the nightmares for a bit. She’d sleep in Richie’s room. Paul let her, he trusted her enough to keep it exactly the way Richie left it.
The nightmares started again tonight.
Grace sat on the floor, back against the foot of the bed. She was crying—really crying. Her throat burned and her lungs ached, completely stripped of the practiced, quiet tears she usually shed to avoid causing a scene. Unfortunately, it was loud enough to wake up Paul.
Down the hallway, the floor creaked. A thin line of light cut through the crack between the bottom of the door and the floor as the lights in the hallway were turned on.
“Grace?”
Paul knocked twice, then pushed Richie’s bedroom door open.
Grace was there, at the foot at the bed on the ground. Paul was now closer; not hearing her through the door. The girl had her knees tucked to her chest, sobbing into her knees. She looked absolutely fucking miserable.
Paul’s immediate instinct was to call Karen. Grace normally asked him to—she’d get scared in the middle of the night and immediately want to go home. Paul wasn’t annoyed by that. He understood. If he was a kid— …He was then hit with the realization; Grace wasn’t a kid anymore. She had probably grown out of her fear of thunder or sleeping in the dark. She didn’t want her mom right now. She wanted Richie back.
She looked the same way Richie did 11 years ago on Graces porch, right after he had been disowned and had remembered the way to the Chasity’s house. Small and frail. Carrying something too heavy for a child to handle. They always had mirrored each other, even if they didn’t realize.
Paul blinked, tearing up. Was that really 11 years ago? He let out a slow, quiet breath. “Grace, hey…” Paul said carefully. “Hey, kiddo…” Grace didn’t look up. Her violent sobbing hitched. Another rough, choked cry erupted from Grace, making her small frame wrack in the dark. Paul didn’t flinch. He was used to Richie breaking down like this after Max picked on him at school. He knew better than to pick up his phone and dial Karen’s number. As much as he knew Grace found comfort in her religion, he immediately knew Grace didn’t need that right now. After he’d had Richie for years, he knew Grace really just needed somebody to sit in the dark with her.
Paul approach her cautiously. He got down on one knee first, lowering himself to her eye level to look at the small, shaking heap on the floor. He wasn’t going to force her into a hug; he wasn’t Richie. He couldn’t just replace the bond they had.
“Are you okay, Grace?” Paul whispered. The words were soft, not demanding. Grace didn’t look up, her face still pressed tightly in her knees, but she slowly shook her head. Her shoulders trembled with another quiet sob. “Do you want to talk about it?” Paul had always asked the same thing—even if he knew what was wrong. He didn’t pry.
“No,” Grace whimpered. It was a sharp, clear boundary. It was the first time she dared to say ‘no’ to an adult, but Paul didn’t look angry. He didn’t lecture her. Instead, his
eyes softened. He stayed silent for a moment. He shifted so he was sitting on the ground now. He opened his arms slightly.
“Do you want a hug?”
Grace lifted her head immediately. Her mind scrambled to find her practiced “good girl” mask, the one that said she was fine and didn’t want to be a burden. But looking at Paul, sitting at eye level on the dusty carpet of the room that used to be Richie’s… She couldn’t perform anymore. She leaned forward into his opened arms and buried her head into his shoulder.
Paul closed his arms around the child that was weeping against him. One hand was on her back and one was cradling the back of her head. He’d never imagined he’d have to do this—that he’d outlive Richie in the first place, but here they were. And Paul was holding on to the only other person in Hatchetfield who missed his nephew as much as he did. There were no expectations in this house—that’s the way he raised Richie. Just a grieving uncle and the girl who should’ve been his sister.
Grace just hopes Richie’s happier than he was in Hatchetfield, wherever he is now.