46. Brayden

Chapter forty-six

Brayden

" A re you ready for this?" Bohdi's gaze locks onto mine as we stand outside the hall. The memories flood back, the time I stood inside, fighting for Bexley. But today, it's different. Today, I walk in to deliver the news that Bexley is no longer with us. I inhale deeply, my neck cracking as I nod. Bohdi has been my rock, and my anchor this past month. Every crash, every moment of doubt, I've leaned on him. He's carried me through it all.

Together, we visit the gravesite, and Bohdi speaks to Bexley. He apologizes for past words, regret etched in his eyes. He promises Bexley that Jace will help him. And then there are the little things—Nerds Ropes on my pillow, courtesy of Bohdi via Tray. His mission: to keep me smiling. And he succeeds every damn time. My smile barely leaves my face when he's around. Even on the bad days, as soon as I see his face, the day doesn't feel as bad anymore.

As I step into the hall, a few heads turn. Among them, I immediately recognize the lady who oversees everything. I offer a smile and walk over to her.

"Brayden," she squints, questioning, as if trying to recall my name.

"That's right, ma'am," I reply, smiling. "I apologize for taking so long to return."

She waves it off. "No need to worry, my boy. Help yourself to refreshments and find a seat. We'll be starting soon."

Her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes, and I wonder if my emotions are evident. I nod, still smiling. Boh and I turn toward the table, grabbing two bottles of water. Brayden leans in. "I'm here with you every step. If it becomes too much, just let me know." I smile back at him and glance around. Some faces are familiar from last time, while others seem new.

The lady addresses the group. "Everyone," she begins, "we have Brayden here, whom some of you may remember from a couple of months ago."

Some people wave, others nod and smile. "Hey!"

"How's your brother doing?" a guy asks and I think I remember his name being Michael. I see Bohdi shift beside me and I take a deep inhale, playing with the fabric on my sweater.

"He—" I pause, knowing I need to say it. "He's gone." Air whooshes out of me. I feel Brayden's fingers link with mine and my eyes immediately snap to people in the room who pay no mind to Bohdi's hand they just look at me, their eyes pained.

"I'm sorry," Michael mutters, his head dropping low. Everyone around the circle mutters their apologies.

"Thank you."

"If this is too much, please do say, but can you share what happened?" the lady gently asks.

"He overdosed," I confess, my voice a fragile thread. "By accident." The words tumble out, a desperate attempt to make sense of the senseless. Bohdi's hand tightens around mine, a silent promise that we're in this together. I glance up, meeting his eyes.

"He left me a note," I continue, my voice trembling. "He was trying to get better. Bags packed, ready to leave, to start over. He was coming back to me. But I still don't know why he took the drugs," I admit, my gaze dropping. "And I've learned not to think about it too much. It won't help."

"How have you been coping?" Someone in the group's question pierces through the fog. I force a small laugh, a brittle shield against the storm.

"I appreciate this isn't a therapy session," I say. "I don't want to waste your time with my feelings."

"No, my dear. We come here to help each other, even in loss. We're all here for you. There are people here that have lost people to overdoses too and still come here as a way of helping themselves heal." I don't know why, but it feels right being here. It's as if Bexley is in this room staring at me now, smiling, telling me to let it out, telling me to open up. My mind goes back to his letter.

I know why it hurts you to let people in, Brayden. Because you let me in and it fucking hurt, didn't it? It cut like a knife to your veins, bleeding you out every single day. I'm so fucking sorry.

"Some days, it doesn't feel real," I confess, my voice a fragile whisper. "People don't understand that losing someone so close isn't a single event, it's a series of small losses. Every time I pick up the phone and dial his number, I lose him all over again." The weight of that truth settles on my chest, suffocating.

"I called him the other day, after training. I used to go and see him after training sometimes. But when I pressed call, reality slammed into me: he's not here anymore. Every morning, I wake up to a world where he no longer exists, and I have to accept that he'll only ever live in my dreams now. It's as if I was already grieving him while he was still breathing, while he was still here. I could touch him then, feel the warmth of his skin, inhale his scent, hear his laughter. Now, there's nothing. Just silence, an empty echo where he used to be. Honestly, I can't explain the pain. It's so deep I don't think it will ever truly root itself out of me. I don't think I will ever truly grasp the meaning of gone forever." A tear slips down my cheek, and before I can wipe it away, Bohdi reaches out, gentle and steady.

He's always there, catching each tear that falls. "I'm so sorry, Brayden. I really am." The woman wipes her tears away from her face. I offer her a soft smile.

"Always remember, it's OK to always be a little sad. Whether it's one year, or ten years from now, it reminds us they were real."

She walks over, opening her arms and her tiny frame holds me, and suddenly, everything tumbles out, the ache, the longing. Just having her hug me makes me wish my mom could have been there for us. Maybe then Bex would still be here. Maybe then he'd still be breathing.

"My sweet boy." Her voice trembles as she lays her hand across my heart. "He will walk beside you every day, and he will always exist in here." Her touch is both comforting and heartbreaking, and I feel the weight of loss settle deeper within me. I take a seat and Bohdi leans over, pressing a kiss to my head.

"I'm proud of you," he whispers.

The group session unfolds, a chorus of pain, strength, and shared struggles. People speak of loved ones lost to drugs, their voices cracking with grief. I listen, my heart aching in solidarity. In this room, we're bound by our brokenness, yet somehow, it feels like a fragile lifeline.

As the session nears its end, the lady's question hangs in the air: Will I return? My answer spills, fueled by determination and a dream that burns brighter than ever. "I'd really like to continue coming," I say, my voice steadier now. "And if it's OK with all of you, I want to volunteer. You see, I'm working on a school project, a tiny seed of hope. But my ultimate dream? To open my own nonprofit rehab center. To help people like Bexley, who never received the lifeline they deserved."

Her response is warm, genuine. "We would be delighted to have you join our family."

We trudge back to the car, exhaustion settling deep within my bones. The group session, the shared pain, the whispered hopes, has left me drained.

"Can you stay with me tonight?"

"I'd love to," I reply, stifling a yawn. "Can we grab some takeout and eat in bed?" His smile lifts my weariness, and I nestle into the passenger seat.

"I couldn't think of anything more perfect," Boh murmurs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. As he drives, I steal glances at him, wondering how someone can be both my anchor and my escape.

We arrive at his place, and Boh scans the surroundings like a guard. Satisfied, he leans down, whispering, "Coast is clear."

I pull my hat low, hood up, and dash inside. The door shuts behind me, and before I can catch my breath, Boh's lips find mine, urgent, hungry, as if they've been waiting all day.

"I've been wanting to do that," he murmurs against my mouth. But a throat clears behind him, and Boh gasps, covering me with his body.

"Cash," Boh wooshes out. The man at the kitchen counter, older but unmistakably related to Boh, pours himself a beer. His gaze flickers from Bohdi to me, curiosity dancing in his eyes.

"Hi," I manage, offering a tight-lipped smile. This must be Cash.

"Is that Boh?" A girl's voice echoes from one of the bedrooms as she strides down the hallway and into the open-plan kitchen. Her beauty is striking, long brown hair, big green eyes. It takes a moment, but then I recognize her. Rylee Stiles, Jace's wife.

Rylee's face lights up when her eyes land on Boh. Her expression softens, torn between aching and uncertainty. It's as if she's missed him desperately, but doesn't quite know how to bridge the gap. An awkward tension settles over us, and I wonder if Bohdi has kept secrets from me.

"Ry," Boh's voice cracks. Rylee shifts, her oversized sweatshirt revealing a bulging bump. A gasp escapes Boh, and I'm equally stunned. There's no mistaking it. Rylee is pregnant. She glances at Boh, sheepish yet hopeful.

"We're having a baby," Cash announces, and even I gasp. I clear my throat discreetly, not wanting to draw attention.

Boh remains frozen, silent. The revelation that Cash, his brother, is expecting a child with his dead son's girlfriend hangs heavy in the air. Did Boh even know about them?

"Boh," Rylee breaks the silence, and then it happens. Boh crumbles, tears streaming down his face. He rushes to Rylee, lifting her in his arms as she sobs.

"Congratulations," I manage, offering Cash a smile. He approaches me, introducing himself.

"I'm Cash, Boh's brother," he says, gesturing toward the emotional scene unfolding. "And that sobbing mess? That's Rylee—my fiancée."

Well shit.