The eggs were cold.
Connie pushed them around her plate with her fork, watching the congealed yolk leave a yellow streak across the ceramic. Across the small kitchen table, Eli ate his own breakfast in silence, his eyes fixed on his phone propped against his water glass.
The pod’s common area felt smaller than usual. Just the two of them in the cramped kitchen space, his roommates gone for the weekend.
She set down her fork.
“So,” she started. “Are we going to talk about it or just sit here pretending everything’s fine?”
Eli’s eyes stayed on his phone. “Talk about what?”
“You know what.”
He took another bite of his eggs, chewing slowly. Finally he looked up. “I don’t want to fight, Con.”
“I don’t want to fight either. But you said something last night and I—“
“I just didn’t think it was a good idea. That’s all."
“That’s not all.” Connie’s fingers gripped the edge of the table. “You said it like I was refusing to move on or something."
Eli set down his fork, leaning back in his chair. “Because you are.”
“I went there for Jimmy,” she said, keeping her voice level. “That’s not hanging onto the past."
“It is when the past includes his brother.”
“This isn’t about Brice. He wasn’t even there.”
“It’s always about Brice.” Eli’s tone was flat, matter-of-fact, like he was stating something obvious.
“I’ve known Jimmy since he was a fucking baby, literally. I have every right to be there.”
“I didn’t say you didn’t have the right. I said it wasn’t healthy.”
Connie’s hands moved from the table to her lap, her fingers interlacing, squeezing. “Part of maturing and moving past this is being able to go to those spaces without being triggered. Without relapsing. That’s what maturity looks like.”
Eli scoffed. “Yeah, I wonder if you actually want that though.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
Eli picked up his fork again, pushing his eggs around like she’d been doing moments before. “Nothing. Forget it.”
“No.” Connie leaned forward. “You said it. So explain it.”
“Con, just drop it."
"No."
He set down his fork again, harder this time. The metal clattered against the plate. He rubbed his hand over his face, exhaling slowly.
“I just think...” he started, then stopped. His eyes met hers, and she could see him weighing his words, deciding how much truth to give her. “I think sometimes you don’t actually want to move on.”
“That’s fucking bullshit.”
“Is it?” his voice rose slightly. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re more interested in fixing what happened with Brice than actually leaving it behind.”
“You don’t know what the fuckyou’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” Eli leaned forward now, his elbows on the table. “The ideal scenario for you isn’t being with me. It isn’t being with someone who treats you better than he did. It’s Brice fixing his shit and treating you better himself. That’s what you actually want.”
“That’s not true,” she managed to get out.
"You mean to tell me if somehow you knew for a fact that he was better, he would treat you better, you wouldn’t be on the first fucking bus to wherever the fuck he’s at?"
Connie stood up quickly, her chair scraping against the the floor.
“Fuck you,” she said, her voice shaking.
“Con—“
“No. Fuck you, Eli.”
…
“—and I don’t know, man. I just feel like we got lucky.”
Brice sat in front of the headstone, his elbows resting on his knees. The grass was wet beneath him, soaking through his sweats, but he didn’t move. The cemetery was empty this early, just him and the rows of markers stretching out in every direction.
"That second one was bad. Really bad."
His fingers picked at the grass between his legs, pulling up individual blades.
“Defense played really good though,” he paused. “But I keep thinking about Indiana. What if that’s when it all falls apart?”
The headstone offered nothing back.
“Everyone’s talking about the playoff now. Like it’s a given. Like we’ve already made it,” his voice dropped lower. “But what if we’re just..."
A bird landed on a nearby headstone, pecked at something, flew away.
"I just don’t want the season to come crashing down," Brice said quietly, "Like if it happens, when it happens, everyone would have been right, you know? We’re pumpkins."
The wind picked up slightly, rustling through the trees that lined the cemetery’s edge. Brice pulled his jacket tighter.
“Two more games. That’s all we need.” Brice was trying to convince himself. "We’ve beaten the tougher teams already and UCLA was close the first time so if we see them again, we’ll be ready this time."
The words felt hollow.
Brice sat there, waiting. For what, he didn’t know. Some sign maybe. Some feeling that he had heard him, that the words hadn’t just disappeared into the cold morning air. But nothing came. Just the wind and the distant sound of traffic from the main road and the knowledge that no matter how long he sat here, no matter how much he talked, Jimmy would never answer.
He’d never answer again.
…
Nia woke to the smell of chamomile. Her head throbbed, a steady pulse behind her eyes that made opening them an act of willpower.
She pushed herself up slowly, her body protesting every movement. The living room swam into focus. Early morning light filtered through the blinds, casting stripes across the coffee table littered with empty bottles and an overflowing ashtray.
“Morning, sunshine.”
Amber stood in the kitchen doorway, a mug in each hand, steam rising from both.
“You were on one last night,” Amber said, moving closer and extending one of the mugs toward Nia.
Nia took it, the ceramic warm against her palms. She brought it to her lips and sipped. Sweet and herbal and completely wrong for how her mouth tasted.
“I don’t remember,” Nia offered weakly.
“Yeah, I figured,” Amber settled into the armchair across from her, curling her legs underneath her.
“Where’s Brian?” Nia asked.
“Work. He’s got the morning shift on Sundays.”
“Shit.” Nia set down the mug, suddenly aware of what day it was.
She stood too quickly. The room tilted. She grabbed the arm of the couch to steady herself.
“You good?” Amber asked, her eyebrows raised.
"Yeah, I gotta go."
…
Skylar had checked the mirror three times before getting out of the car. Makeup still in place. Hair still cooperating despite the wind. Jacket covering the parts of her body she was still self-conscious about.
Baby James had been bundled carefully, layer after layer until she was confident he’d stay warm. The stroller had taken longer than it should have to unfold, her hands fumbling with the mechanism until it finally clicked into place.
She’d seen him from across the cemetery. Sitting alone on a bench near the edge, his shoulders hunched forward, his attention fixed on something she couldn’t see from this distance. Her heart had done that stupid flutter thing it always did when she saw him, even now, even after everything.
She’d taken a breath, composed herself, started walking. Casual.
The stroller wheels caught on the uneven ground, making her grip the handle tighter. James made a small sound but didn’t wake, his face peaceful under all the blankets.
Brice looked up as she got closer. His expression didn’t change. Just watched her approach with that same blank look he’d been wearing since the hospital.
“Hey,” she said when she reached him.
He stood up, the movement automatic, polite. They hugged, his arm coming around her shoulders for barely a second before pulling away. It felt like hugging a statue.
They sat. Skylar positioned the stroller in front of the bench, setting the brake. She reached in, carefully lifting James out, supporting his head the way the nurses had shown her. He was getting heavier.
“You want to hold him?” she asked, turning toward Brice.
He shook his head once. Small movement.
“Okay,” she said quietly.
She settled James against her chest, adjusting the blankets around him. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant sound of traffic and the wind moving through the trees.
Brice was staring at nothing. His jaw was tight, his hands clasped between his knees. Every part of his body language screamed that he didn’t want to be here.
“So,” Skylar started, keeping her voice light. “The season’s going really well.”
“Yeah.”
“You must be excited.”
“Sure.”
Skylar’s fingers moved over James’s back in slow circles. She tried again. “What are you doing for Christmas?”
Brice scoffed, shaking his head. The sound was bitter, humorless.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Brice—“
“What do you want me to say, Skylar?” His eyes finally met hers. “That I’m planning some big family Christmas? That you’re invited or something?"
“I just—“ she started, then stopped. “I’m saying you have to at least try to make this work or it won’t.”
“What does working even look like for you?” Brice turned his body toward her now, his full attention on her for the first time since she’d sat down.
Skylar adjusted James in her arms, buying herself a second to think. “I want to give you a chance to be a father. A real one. Even if we’re not together.”
“Right.”
“I’m serious, Brice. I’m not using the baby to make you my husband or whatever you think I’m doing.”
Brice’s laugh was sharp. “You’ve manipulated everything since the start and you won, alright? Doesn’t mean I have to be fucking happy about it."
Skylar’s grip tightened on James. “That’s not—“
“Are you still in school?”
Her mouth opened. Closed. The silence was answer enough.
“Exactly,” Brice said, leaning back against the bench, "Congratulations. You’ve secured the fucking bag."
“I dropped my classes because I need to take care of the baby,” Skylar’s voice rose slightly, making James stir against her chest. She lowered it, forced it steady. “Since you clearly aren’t going to.”
“Poor you."
“I turned down your offer, Brice. Doesn’t that prove I’m not in it for the money?”
“No.” Brice’s eyes met hers, cold and certain. “That just proves you want more than a million.”
She stared at him, searching his face for something, anything that looked like the boy who’d held James in the hospital and cried. Who’d smiled when she’d said the name. Who’d looked, for just a moment, like he might actually care.
Nothing. Just that same blank expression, those same cold eyes.
James made a small sound, his face scrunching up. Skylar rocked slightly, soothing him back to sleep, her movements automatic even as her chest felt like it was caving in.
The silence settled over them again. Heavier this time. Final.
Skylar looked down at James’s face, at the tiny features that were starting to look more and more like his father’s. The nose. The shape of his eyes. All the things that would grow and change and become someone she couldn’t predict.
Brice had turned away again, his attention back on whatever invisible point in the distance he’d been staring at before. His jaw was tight. His shoulders rigid.
She could leave. Should leave. Take James and go back to her car and drive away from this bench and this cemetery and this boy who couldn’t see past his own fear and past failures long enough to look at what was right in front of him.
But her body wouldn’t move. Just sat there, holding their son, waiting for something that wasn’t going to come.
The wind picked up, rustling through the trees overhead. A few leaves fell, brown and dead, landing on the grass around the bench. Somewhere in the distance, a car door slammed.
Skylar pulled the blankets tighter around James, protecting him from the cold that Brice seemed immune to. Her fingers traced small circles on the baby’s back, the only movement between them.
Neither of them spoke. Neither of them looked at each other. Just sat there in the cemetery where Brice’s brother was buried, where his namesake slept in Skylar’s arms, where everything that should have mattered felt impossibly far away.
…
She walked through the gates, following the path she knew. Past the old section with headstones from the 1800s. Past the mausoleum that always made her think of horror movies. Past the row of trees that marked where the newer graves began.
His headstone sat near the back, under an oak tree that still had some of its leaves despite the season. Movement caught her eye. A woman pushing a stroller. A man sitting alone, hunched forward.
Nia kept walking, her eyes on his grave, but her peripheral vision tracked the figures. The woman was getting closer to the bench now. The man stood up.
Nia’s steps slowed.
The man was tall. Broad shoulders. Dirty blonde hair. Even from this distance, even with her head pounding and her vision slightly blurred, she recognized him. She hadn’t seen him since that night, his beard more kept now, his hair slightly trimmed.
The woman reached him. They hugged, brief and awkward. They sat down together on the bench.
Nia’s feet carried her forward again, slower now, her eyes darting between them and the grave. She didn’t want to look at him but she couldn’t help it. Her eyes kept pulling back to the bench as she got closer.
The woman was lifting something from the stroller. A baby. Wrapped in a blue blanket, small enough to fit in the crook of her arm. She held it out toward Brice.
Nia passed them, close enough now to hear their voices but not the words. Close enough to see Brice shake his head, his body language rigid, uncomfortable. Close enough to see the woman’s face as she pulled the baby back against her chest.
The woman looked familiar. Nia’s fuzzy memory tried to place her but couldn’t. She walked past them toward Jimmy’s grave, her head down now, not wanting them to notice her. Not wanting Brice to recognize her, though he probably wouldn’t.
She reached the headstone and dropped to her knees in front of it. The grass was cold and wet. She pulled off her backpack, unzipping it to retrieve the small bouquet she’d grabbed from the convenience store on her way here. Gas station flowers. Cheap and already wilting. But it was something.
She placed them next to the other ones, her hands shaking slightly. From the cold or the hangover or something else, she couldn’t tell. Nia’s fingers found the edge of her jacket sleeve, pulling it up without thinking. The marks on her inner arm were visible now. Small red dots, some fresh, some fading to purple. Evidence of the past three days that she couldn’t quite remember.
The tears came suddenly. She pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to stop them, but they kept coming. Her shoulders shook. Her breath caught in her throat.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered to the headstone. “I’m so sorry.”
