Page 16 of Left of Forever

“Don’t talk about her like that,” I seethe. “Don’t act like she’s some abstractthingor idea to me. She’s my wife.”

He tosses his bread down. “She’s not, though, Ellis. She hasn’t been for more than four years.”

The words slice through me faster than a knife through one of those fancy butters. I move my hands to my lap, worried I might crush the glass in my fist.

“I’m not trying to be a dick,” he says more softly, blowing out a long breath. “I just… I just think you try tofixeverything. You can’t stand something broken, so you take shit on yourself to the point that it’s actually fucking selfish sometimes, and I think that too much is out of your control right now, or changing without you, and you can’t handle it. I know you, and I know that no matter how asinine it is, you blame yourself for what happened to me.”

“It is my fault,” I snap, and I’m mortified that a lump forms in my throat. I know how true everything else he’s said is, but I can’t pretend I don’t feel this way. “I just mean I should have been closer. I lost you somewhere, and that never happens. I always know where you’re at, no matter how chaotic it gets. But I couldn’t find you, and then I did and you—” I turn and close my eyes. Try to shut out the picture of the ground collapsing from under him, the fire billowing up in his place.

His tone is gentler but still stern when he says, “I don’t know how to help you realize that it was a freak accident, Ellis. I don’t know how to get it through your thick skull that this wasn’t your fault.”

“I’m not your responsibility, Silas. It happened to you, not me. You shouldn’t need to worry about me, too.”

“Man, fuck you,” he says, laughing in disbelief. I feel my chin rear back like he’s punched me. I’ve never seen Silas this angry, especially quiet like this. “You’re doing it again,” he says. “You’re taking it all on.I’mnot your responsibility anymore, either, Ellis.I’mnot something you take on while you fight a fire alone. I’m a capable fucking adult, and I am… I was competent—goodat my job.” He rips into his bread again. “I know that a lot is changing, and I know it can’t be easy. I know that this shook you, and don’t fucking tell me not to worry about you again or I swear to god I’ll lose it.”

He gives me a long, considerate look before he presses on. “I know Sage is settling down and I know you’re happy for her like we all are, but I also know it’s achange. Micah being gone is nothing new, but I know you worry about him, too. And Sam being in his last year of school before he goes off to college is probably not an easy concept to grapple with. That’s probably the biggest one of all…

“But, brother, Wren finally seems like she’s ready to move on. She’s—”

I make a noise and hold up my hand, begging him to stop before he says anything I can’t unhear.

“No, Ell. I think it’s important.” His expression turns pained. “She’s just now talking to me about trying to date, yes, but it’s more than that. She’s actuallyhopefulagain. She’s herself again. And yeah, you knew her differently, but we’ve all been friends for basically our whole lives, so I know what I’m talking about, too. So if she hasn’t given you any indication that she’d like to rekindle things with you… I don’t think it would be fair. I don’t think it’s fair for you to suddenly, miraculously come to this realization on your own and charge in to take care of it all on your own like you’d inevitably try to.”

“But what if I could?” I croak. “Fix it, I mean. Wouldn’t it be worth trying?” My chest is an empty, barren cavern without her. My heart took shape around hers, too, and it will never go back.

He finishes the bite he’s working on and calls over to Fisherfor another beer before he looks at me again. “All the stretches and exercises”—he adds finger quotes toexercises—“they have me do in physical therapy? They’re all things I can do myself in the comfort of my own home. But I go to the experts and will continue going because they will catch it if I develop any bad habits and start doing things wrong. They’ll correct me. I am reliant on their expertise.” Fisher puts fresh beers down in front of us, hard enough that they slosh and spill before he marches off again. “I could technically fix this on my own,” Silas goes on, gesturing toward the half of his body that sustained the most burns. “I could get stronger on my own, but I run the risk of messing it up, healing improperly, inviting infection and a world of misery upon myself.” He pouts into his beer. “I’ll never have a nail on my pinkie toe again.”

I take a drink. “I’m sorry, brother. I know that one is your favorite.”

“I had nice man feet,” he grouses.

“I’m sure they’re great still.”

He shrugs, and I feel a strange, pulsing ache in my throat. “You’re wiser than you look, you know,” I tell him.

He squints out the window into the foggy day. “Had a good example,” he says, almost too low for me to catch. “And I’m still not as wise as the real experts,” he adds, looking at me again, his knee bouncing under the table. “On top of physical therapy, the union is paying for me to talk to a regular therapist, too. I’ve only been twice, but it helps, Ell. I know Fisher talks to someone, too.”

“Pork belly bánh mi sandwiches,” says the man in question, setting plates in front of us with a small flourish. “Can I get you boys anything else? I live to serve.” He spears us both with an impatient look.

“Oh my god, Ell, know what I just realized?” Silas says. “Thisguy’s cooking Thanksgiving for us.” He smiles and takes a bite of his sandwich, beaming up at Fisher as a shredded carrot falls out of his mouth.

Fisher crosses his arms behind his back. “I am. And you should know that green bean casserole will not be tolerated.”

“Duhh fuuuhhhg?!” Silas whines in outrage, mouth full. “That’s my favorite!”

Fisher’s expression twitches like he knew this. “It’s disgusting and it’s gluttonous on top of an already heavy meal. If you want it, make your own.”

Silas’s face is indignant. “I’m sonotleaving a tip.”

“I don’t have a working cash register,” Fisher snaps back. “I’m not even the CDC here.We’re not open!” He throws his hands up in exasperation.

“What Silas meant to say,” I offer, “is, ‘Thank you for lunch. And for the beer.’ Let us know what we should bring to Thanksgiving.” Another thought occurs to me. “But, hey—don’t… don’t do desserts, all right?”

Fisher’s head tilts, a mildly surprised furrow in his brow.

“Why?” Silas asks me suspiciously. “You don’t eat Wren’s desserts anymore, anyway.”

Fisher looks between us, and his features go smooth with understanding before they crinkle in pity at me.