32. Chapter 32

Bitter November air cuts through me as I make my way across the browning grass. I'm forever grateful that I was smart enough to remember how different the weather would be and packed my fleece-lined leggings and wool socks. Chicago in November is a lot colder than Texas in November. And Chicago is miserable today. Leaves spin and twirl as they breeze by. The sky is gloomy and overcast, fitting my mood perfectly.

Forcing one duck boot-covered foot in front of the other, I make my way over to my destination. When I arrived, I thought my memories would have blocked out the gravesite, but it must be ingrained in my muscle memory of where I was bound for. Pulling my parka tighter around, I reach up and secure my scarf closer around me to block out the blustering wind. Continuing toward my destination, I slide my beanie further down my ears. This wind is miserable. Finding the spot in the grass I hadn't visited in five years, I squat down, leaning my back against the cold stone.

"Hi, brother," I greet, rubbing my fingers against the engraving—Bryce Philip Wilder. Beloved Son, Brother, and Friend. "I'm sorry it's been so long since I've visited. Chalk it up to me being the absolute worst sister." I choke out the words, inhaling a deep breath, willing myself to be strong.

I can do this. I can do this.

I knew coming here was going to be a challenge, but I didn't realize how difficult it was going to be. But it was time. In fact, it's entirely long overdue.

The other day when I was walking across campus it occurred to me that I needed to come visit. Visiting the cemetery pops into my mind here and there, but this time it was a strong notion. It wasn't that I needed to, it was that I had to. I needed to finally grow up and stop acting like a child. It was time I came home to have a conversation with my brother.

And then one with Asher.

It's time to get closure. The time has come to close this chapter of my life and move forward. Especially if I want to move forward with Quinton. I'm not coming here to forget about them, but it's time I come here to accept that they aren't coming back, and it's okay for me to move on. I didn't die with them. It's not fair to either one of them that I quit living when I have the chance to.

Taking a deep breath, I fold my hands in my lap while tilting my face to the sky. The sunbeams warm my face, a smile breaking free from my lips. If I let myself believe it, I can feel Bryce's eyes on me. He's sending me warmth by letting the clouds part for the sun. It's his way letting me know that he's here with me.

I hope Heaven is everything we are told and more. That it's not just some made-up place for us living to picture. I hope that he and Asher are bouncing from cloud to cloud, raising hell, and causing just enough trouble while still being allowed to stay behind those pearly gates.

Or maybe it's like The Good Place and both of them have found their soulmates. Gosh, I hope that's the case. I hope both of them have been given the opportunity to love—Bryce for the first time and Asher to find someone new to love, someone he"s meant to spend the rest of his life with. That version of heaven is just like Earth—attending college, finding their passions, falling in love, and making new memories. Maybe there's a big screen TV where they get to sit down and check in on us still living without them.

A stream of tears slides down my cheek, and I quickly thumb them away.

"Dammit, Bryce. I freaking miss you. I miss your obnoxious laugh, your contagious smile, and your warm embraces. And I miss having you by my side. College was supposed to be me and you. Our journey together out of the clutches of Mom and Dad." A sob breaks free, and I take a minute to just let the tears pour. "I got into CTU. I almost didn't go. It didn't feel right to go without you, but I knew you would've been pissed at me. It's not the same without you, far from it, but I'm trying. I'm trying so hard to make you proud. I can't say that some of the decisions I've made over the years would have you feel proud of me, but I was doing the best I could. Which is a shit excuse, but that's always been me—full of excuses."

I pause, taking a deep breath and searching the grounds. There's a cardinal resting a few rows over. If that isn't a sign that Bryce is with me, I don't know if I could find anything clearer. "But I'm taking my major seriously. I graduate next fall before continuing on to the master's program. I want to be a youth therapist who helps kids with their grief after a loss."

For the next twenty minutes, I sit and recap my last three years at CTU for Bryce, sparing him the rest of high school. Both of us were trying to survive high school before the accident. Our minds had already traveled to what was to come next for us. Telling Bryce I'd be back, I get up and make my way over a few rows.

The shiny black marble stares back at me, Asher's name engraved on the headstone. I stand there, staring at the stone, not moving. The words for Bryce came easily. I don't know what to say to Asher. I miss him something fierce, and guilt surrounds me. Guilt for letting him take my ticket. Guilt for leaving him that day in the hospital. Guilt for falling in love with someone who isn't him. My love for Quinton came out of nowhere, but it feels so natural. It's the same feeling I had for Asher, if not stronger, and it makes me feel so guilty to have these feelings for someone else.

Finally, I force myself to move. Bending down, I sit on my knees, the words staring back at me.

"Hi Ash," my voice squeaks out. "I'm sorry I haven't been by. Truth is, guilt has consumed me, leaving me paralyzed about what to say to you." That same paralyzing feeling hits me. I don't know where I'm supposed to go from here. "I met someone," I blurt. "You'd really like him. Quinton reminds me a lot of you and Bryce. He's driven, he's caring, and he's hardworking. But I'm scared to tell him I love him. What if there's not enough room in my heart for him too? You still hold my heart like a vise. And what if my love isn't enough? Or what if something happens to him just like something happened to you and Bryce? I'd never be able to live with myself.

"I know I'm rambling. Words have never been hard between us. Hell, we both went through that dreaded junior high awkward stage together, but this just feels different."

My knees grow tired from holding my weight. I shift so that I'm leaning with my back against his stone as I did at Bryce's site.

"I guess I came here today to tell you that I love him. I love Quinton so much that it hurts. And while I love him, I'll always love you. I'll always wonder what our life would've been like. But while I'll hold on to that life, I've got to move on. It's not fair to any of us for me to die while living. And if you're watching over me, like I know you are, just give me a sign that it's okay to move on."

I let the words finish spewing from my mouth, knowing that it's a bunch of random nonsense that I'm hoping he's making sense of.

Closing my eyes, I tilt my chin to my chest and just focus on my breathing. The wind picks up, blowing my loose hair into my face. Reaching up to swipe the tendril from my face, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye.

Two cardinals are perched in a pine tree. One of them flies toward me, landing on the headstone across from me. He lets out the most beautiful chirp, and the dam breaks. Sobs erupt from my chest, streams of water pour from my eyes, and I know that was my sign from Asher.

The air is growing colder, the sun back behind the gray clouds. Standing up, I bend down and press my lips to Asher's headstone.

"I love you, Asher Nelson."

My hand slides into my pocket, and I find the photos that I had stashed away. Removing the double-stick tape from the back of the photos, I attach them to his grave. A copy of the photo Grace sent me and a recent photo of me and Quinton after one of his football games.

Making my way back over to tell Bryce goodbye, I'm just about to his gravesite when a figure appears, startling me. She's tall and thin, wearing dress slacks and a long wool coat. Glancing up, she makes eye contact with me, stopping me in my tracks, and freezing me like one of Medusa's victims.

"Mom?" I rasp out.

Carolyn Cabot-Wilder is standing in front of me. Shock doesn't even begin to describe what I'm feeling.

Clutching her hands to her chest, her eyes squint as she takes me in.

"Brinley, is that you?" Nodding my head, I slowly make my way toward her. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to talk to Bryce and Asher."

She nods her head at my answer. The look of surprise is evident on her face. For a moment, neither of us says anything. I take the moment to look at her, really look at the woman who made me. Deep lines are starting to crease near her eyes. She looks as elegant as ever, but older, like she's more exhausted than normal. I've heard that the hospital is doing well and is the number one trauma hospital in the suburbs of Chicago. I'm sure she sees a lot.

"How long are you here for?"

"I just came for the day," I answer, turning and stepping closer to Bryce's spot. "I was actually just coming back to say goodbye to Bryce."

She nods her head. That seems to be the only reaction that she gives me. Bending down, I kiss the cool stone as I did to Asher's. Pulling out another photo of me and Quinton, I attach it to his grave, hoping he can see it.

"I love you, Bryce. I miss you so damn much. Keep an eye on me," I whisper, leaving one more kiss.

Standing upright, I'm not sure what to do. To say that I'm shocked to run into my mother would be an understatement. I never would've imagined that she visited his grave, especially since she has not once visited me. Her child who is still alive. Pausing, I wait to see if she says anything.

Nothing comes.

I go to move around her when her hand reaches out and touches my forearm. My arm jerks in reaction, not from fright but from shock. She jerks her hand back at my reaction.

"I'm sorry," she rushes out.

"It's fine," I answer, locking eyes with her.

She takes a deep breath, and I watch as her chest rises and falls.

"I'm sorry I haven't been a good mother to you, Brinley. Actually, I've been a horrible mother for quite some time."

Taken aback by her comments, I eye her cautiously. "You have been a terrible mother," I respond.

She flinches at my response, but it's the truth. And today seems as good as any to get it off my chest.

"You acted like I was gone too, Mom. You forgot about being a mother to us long before Bryce died. When he did die, you said horrible things. You were terrible to me. You—"

"I was grieving," she retorts, cutting me off.

An exasperated sigh leaves my lips. "So was I," I shout. Tears well in my eyes, but I fight like hell to keep from shedding them. "I was grieving my twin brother and my boyfriend. And then I was grieving the loss of my parents. You told me you wished it was me. How does a seventeen-year-old come back from that?"

Tears are streaming down her face leaving a trail of black mascara.

"I've been seeing a counselor. It hasn't been long, but she's helping me deal with my problems—problems I've been facing for many, many years."

"That's great, Mom. Good for you."

And I really mean that. Quinton and I have been having conversations about me setting up an appointment with a therapist. I think everyone should find the time to talk to a professional.

Life is hard, and it's messy. It's full of challenges, and it doesn't hurt to seek help from an outsider. Even if it's just being able to speak freely with someone who doesn't know you or your history. It's healthy, and I love that so many people are finally starting to talk about their mental health struggles. Professional sports are pushing mental health on top of physical health. Maybe we won't have so many problems in the future if we end the stigma about mental health and seeking treatment—whether it be from prescription medicine or talking to a therapist.

"Do you think we can move past our issues?" Mom asks, vulnerability lining her words.

"Do I think we can move past them? No," I answer, her shoulders deflating at my response. "But I think we can work on healing our issues. It's going to take a lot of time to heal these wounds, Mom. But if you're willing to truly fix our relationship, then I'm not going to deny you. I miss having a mom." I choke out that last thought because it's true. I miss having a mom to call when I need advice or just want to share something exciting that's happened in my world.

Another sob escapes Carolyn Cabot-Wilder, and I'm shocked at the emotion she is so openly expressing. She rushes me and pulls me in for a hug. My arms stay still at my side. I haven't had a hug from my mother in ten years.

"I'm so sorry for everything, Brynn. I hope you can forgive me someday." Slowly, I move my arms up to her waist and give her a small squeeze. Our hug is short as she pulls away first. Taking a tissue from her pocket, she wipes her tear-streaked face, leaving her foundation behind on the white paper. "Be safe heading home."

"Thanks, Mom."

And with that, I turn and walk away. Leaving my mother alone in the cemetery.

I came to Chicago to seek closure from my dead boyfriend and to catch up with my dead twin brother, but I'm leaving Chicago hopeful that someday I'll actually have a relationship with my mother.

A relationship I thought was dead, too.