Every Little Thing

17

The moment we're outside, Reed holding the leftovers that Mom insisted he take, me with a jacket around my bare shoulders, he turns to me with a knowing grin.

"What?" I ask, and he shakes his head.

"It was takeout, wasn't it?" He asks. "The dinner."

My heart sinks for a split second before he breaks into laughter, a wide smile spreading across his face, shoulders shaking in silence. I roll my eyes, trying to mask my embarassment.

"We tried to cook," I insist, but he waves away the excuse, still laughing.

"Jesus, Evelyn," he says, nearly doubled-over, eyes crinkled in mirth. "You could have just told me. I don't require five-star, homecooked meals. But God, the look on your faces. Both of you, waiting for me to figure it out, looking all worried."

He keeps laughing, and I join in, too, realizing the ridiculousness of it all.

"We were just trying to impress you," I admit, shaking my head. "Mom was embarassed that she couldn't manage a pot of chili."

"Don't be," he replies, shaking his head in disbelief. "It was so hard to keep a straight face, I swear. But that's probably one of the craziest dinners I've ever had. You seriously didn't think I'd recognize food from the pizzeria on the corner?"

I shrug, fighting back more peals of laughter. "I think we were both hoping you wouldn't."

He releases a content sigh, looking down at his leftovers and then at me.

"It doesn't matter. I appreciate the gesture—really."

"Of course," I reply, and then add, "Besides, it's probably better this way. Otherwise we'd be choking down my mom's charred chili."

He laughs, and then pauses, a reflective look entering his eyes before he murmurs,

"She's really amazing, Evelyn."

"I know," I reply, and the mood in the air shifts, because now I'm thinking about his mother, and what happened, and how he manages to look sad and happy all at once whenever he talks about her. And I want to know more, to know more than what I learned on the train to the pier, but I also know what it feels like when people pry, and how uncomfortable it is.

So we just stand in silence, and I let the breeze roll over the both of us. It tousles his hair, causes goosebumps to spring up on my skin and sends a howl through the dead branches of trees surrounding us.

"Do you ever think about him?" He asks me suddenly, and my head shoots up. His eyes catch mine and his cheeks color, just slightly.

"Sorry," he adds, clearing his throat, "I don't mean to be intrusive. It's just—your dad—"

"Yeah," I say softly, before he can continue to sputter, "I do. But it's hard, you know? I have to imagine practically everything. What he looks like, what he likes to do, what his last name is. It's like he's just this giant puzzle, and I've only got one piece."

"His name," Reed says, and I nod.

He releases a breath slowly.

"I used to feel that way about my mom. I knew her, obviously, and knew what she liked and who she was—but when she got sick, it's like we lost pieces of that. She began to forget things, and she wasn't herself. I had the whole puzzle, Evelyn, but none of the goddamn pieces would fit together anymore."

My breath catches in my throat as he continues, glancing up at the sky and saying,

"And I remember just standing in those hospital rooms, watching her hooked up to these contraptions and strapped down to a bed for years, and I just couldn't figure it out. How my mom—in all of her kindness and joy—had somehow managed to land herself in the worst situation possible."

His voice is thick now, and I can hardly stand it; I hate seeing him sad. We've moved closer to each other, only a few inches' space between us.

"Reed," I say softly, and he looks up at me, lips kicked up in a weak attempt of consolation.

"I—I need to talk about it," he says, quickly, as if he's running out of time. "If I don't talk about it, it will drive me insane. You don't have to say anything. Just—listen. Please."

That much I can do. I nod, and he smiles at me, so sadly that it's hardly even a smile.

"One day, I walked into her hospital room," he breathes, his voice so quiet that I'm not even sure he's talking to me anymore, "And she stared at me. Her face completely blank. And I asked her how she was doing, and—"

His voice breaks, for a split second, and my heart breaks with it. One, two, three seconds pass, hollow beats, taunting me with their emptiness. Taunting me with the fact that Reed Bishop is sad, and there is nothing I can do about it.

His hand finds mine somehow, despite the darkness and my jumbled thoughts, and it is the only steady thing in a world full of chaos. We hold hands as he finds the will to speak again.

"She just looked at me, Evelyn," he whispers, his voice like that of a five-year-old afraid of the dark, "She looked at me and asked me who I was, and if I needed help finding my family."

And that's what does it. My stomach plummets, my hands break out into a cold sweat, and suddenly I'm envisioning him—a younger Reed, looking back at his mother and having to explain that she is his family.

"Oh, God," I say, and when he doesn't say anything, I work myself into his arms. The embrace he gives me is tight and bone-crushing and heartbreaking because I feel the intensity of it, the attempt to keep the tears at bay, the amount of pain that he feels, so much that it practically radiates from him.

"I'm sorry, Reed," Is all I can think to say, but apparently nothing else needs to be said, because his arms tighten around me and I grasp onto him in return, and we stay that way for a long time, both dreading the moment we will have to let go.