Page 21 of Never Forget
"Yeah."
Mark turned to face me, leaning against the counter. "I'm here. Whatever you need. You know that, right?"
"I know." I managed something close to a smile. "Thank you."
"What about breakfast? I could make eggs. Toast." He opened the refrigerator, peering inside. "There's... some cheese. Butter. Something that might be bacon."
"Sam's coming over. He's going to help with everything."
"Oh." Mark straightened, closing the fridge. "That's nice of him."
"He was Jack's best friend growing up." I moved past him to grab a mug from the cabinet. "He's practically like a brother to us."
Brother.The word didn't sit right.
"Good. That's good." Mark nodded, genuine. "I'm glad you have people here."
The coffee finished brewing. I poured two mugs, handed one to Mark. We stood there in the kitchen, neither of us sure what to say next, the silence filling with all the words we couldn't find.
"Morning." Loretta's voice was rough. She hadn't slept well either. "Coffee ready?"
She appeared with Rosie on her hip, both of them still in pajamas. Rosie's face was puffy with sleep, her thumb hovering near her mouth, her eyes tracking the unfamiliar man in her kitchen.
"Just made a pot."
Loretta set Rosie down and moved toward the mugs, but halfway there she stopped. Wrinkled her nose.
"You smell that?"
I inhaled. Faint, under the coffee. Smoke.
"Those damn boys again." Loretta shook her head, irritation cutting through the exhaustion. "I've told them a hundred times. Smoking right there by the side of the house, throwing their cigarette butts wherever they please." She poured her coffee, still muttering. "Bad enough they're killing their own lungs. Don't need them poisoning Rosie's air too."
"I'll talk to them," I said.
"Won't do any good. Boys." She said it like a diagnosis. A chronic condition with no cure.
A small frustration. Background noise.
We had a funeral to plan.
Sam arrived at 10:00 a.m.
He shook Mark's hand, insisted on driving, and loaded us into his truck like a man with a plan. Mark took the back seat without being asked. I sat up front and watched Havensworth slide past the window.
I watched him drive. Hands steady on the wheel. Checking mirrors. Patient at a red light, not reaching for his phone, just waiting.
When we were kids, he couldn't sit still for five minutes. I remember him at twelve, doing a backflip off the rope swing at the quarry while Jack yelled at him to stop showing off. Racing bikes down our street so fast Mrs. Tucker threatened to call his mother. He had this laugh—loud, infectious—you could hear it from three rooms away.
Now look at him. A gentleman. The kind of steady that only comes from years of showing up when it matters.
"How's Anna doing?" I asked somewhere around Meeting Street.
Sam glanced at me, then back at the road. "She's good. Greg got stationed in Virginia last year, so they're up there now. Kids are getting big—Emma's seven, Lucas just turned four."
"Four. Same as Rosie."
"Yeah." He smiled, soft. "Anna sends pictures every week. Lucas is all Greg, but Emma's got the Reeves stubborn streak. Arguing with her teachers already."
