The One Who Got Away is Back

Present 11 ♡ Between Heaven and Hell

Why should I care?

Why did I feel like I was being torn apart by the news?

For most of my life my father had been a stranger, someone whose only filial gesture was to pay my bills until he decided to cut his losses. I should feel indifferent, this wasn't going to affect my day to day life. I'd still go on into the world as an orphan of sorts with enough associated trauma that I should probably see a therapist about it.

And yet I couldn't stop crying. Somehow I made it through the rest of the working day but as soon as I made it to Miguel's apartment I broke down again.

"I'm sorry," I said as I blew my nose into a tissue. "I don't mean to be such a bother, it's just..."

As I drifted of, all the words I wanted to say tumbled into each other and wedged in my throat. The urge to keep apologizing was strong, but so was the need to hash out every little wrong Alphonse Holt II had ever done to me. The list was long and it would be satisfying going through it, but it wouldn't answer the main question. Which was the reason behind why I cared that he was in his deathbed.

"No, I understand," Miguel said after I managed to ask him why in between sobs and hiccups. He held out a glass of water for me that I took gladly and then continued rubbing circles on my back. "I probably understand better than anyone."

"Oh," I murmured.

"I mean it's different, of course," he said, gaze lost among the incessant lights outside the window of his apartment in Brickell. "My mom was torn away from us in such a horrific way. But the loss is similar."

"I don't think it's the same," I said as I grabbed his hand. It brought his focus back into the room, outside of his head. I shook my head at him. "Your mom loved you and Charlie and your dad. It's much, much worse having lost her."

Miguel stayed silent for a moment before pulling me against him. The angle allowed him to kiss the top of my head.

"Look at that, two kids with loss issues trying to compete over who lost more." His chest rumbled with a low laugh that warmed me. After a while he pulled away to look down at me. I could tell whatever was on his mind bothered him, so I just waited until he was ready. Finally, he said with a thread of voice, "My biggest regret is that I wasn't there, you know? When the robbery went wrong."

My eyes widened. "Why do you say that?"

Miguel's eyes squeezed shut tight.

"I just keep wondering, what if I could've done something?" He winced. "I know, you don't have to give me that look. It's irrational."

"You were just a kid," I shook my head. "Without a gun, mind you."

"Yeah, but so was my sister." That shut me up. "She saw the whole thing and... and worse, and she carries that trauma with her every day of her life. I can't even share that burden with her. All I have is my grief."

"But Miguel." I sighed and dropped the balls of tissues in my hands where they fell so that I could hug him. "You are sharing it. By giving her and your dad all the love that you give them. By helping to make sure that they're living fulfilling lives, not constantly dragged down by the tragedy. That emotional support you give them is your way of sharing in the loss and horror in the best possible way you can manage."

His chin trembled and his eyes misted over. I reached for the tissue box and offered it to him. He took one and dabbed at the corners of his eyes before the tears started to fall.

"In fact," I said softly. "You've even given me some of the same care. Now and in college."

His face scrunched up. "That's really all I know to do."