When he slammed the door open, she was on the floor surrounded by tissues. They formed a half-wall around her; thin paper bricks and tear mortar. The smack of the door on the wall forced her head up, and her mouth dropped at the sight of him. The rain dropped from his hair and jacket like the tears from her eyes, and she almost burst out laughing at his stance in the doorway – one foot in, one foot out, arms spread from the force of his dramatic door-opening escapade. The kicker was his face – stunned, confused, and a little bit mad, maybe that she'd been so happy and bright and distant all day and then he comes home and finds this – this – antithesis to his perception of her feelings.
"What're you doing here?" she mumbled through numb lips.
"Ah, well, I, uh … why're you crying?"
Ah yes, that reminded her. And she started off again, a hiccupping, wet, painful sob that shook her forwards into her tissue wall, knocking off the topmost enforcements.
She tried to tell him once she started again, she really did, but the words didn't come out. Her crying had a mind of its own; the tears pushed away any words that had a chance of forming.
His body moved before his brain could fully react, because he was in comfort mode. He soothed her with his hands and his arms, and he tried desperately to understand her meager formations of words.
"Hewagh – hiccup – ablith – hiccup – acoulbnt" – and then she was gone, all sobs and sadness, no room for reason or explanation.
He pulled her face into his neck, crossing his legs and pulling her onto them. She grabbed two handholds on his shirt, squeezing so hard that afterwards he wondered how much ironing he would have to do to get them out.
He could feel her tear-laden eyelashes opening and closing against his neck, a gentle back and forth tickle, as she tried to expel the tears, as though she hated herself for having them. They traveled from her eyes to his neck, and down to his shirt, which he could feel slowly getting soaked.
He couldn't deny that he was still confused, and when there were lulls in the sobs, he would start to ask something – Wha… - but she always cut him off with a fresh onslaught.
Alright, fine, I'll just wait it out, he thought, but that didn't work either, because once the body-quaking wails had turned into irregular moans and hiccups, she was already asleep. Hell, who can blame her? That took a lot of effort. He'd never seen sadness leave the body with such force in his life. It struck him that if she hadn't been holding onto his shirt, she might've shriveled up and disappeared.
Which reminded him – should he be worried about dehydration? That was a hell of a lot of water that she just got rid of, and he was no doctor, but that could do some serious damage. He uncrossed his legs with some unsettling cracks and struggled to his feet, one arm under her legs and the other remaining tightly around her middle. He walked to her little kitchen, after closing the front door with his foot, making a mental note to lock it once she was in bed.
With some awkward arranging and jostling, he managed to get her a glass of water without moving her around too much or – god forbid – dropping her. He balanced the glass in one hand and held her up with the other and his forearm.
Placing the glass on her bedside table, he lay her out on the length of her bed, and set to work undressing her. It took serious serious mental focus to stay sexually neutral. He finally worked her into a pair of sweats and a giant tee shirt, and settled her under the covers. He went out and locked the door, and came back into her room.
Fuck! Where do I sleep? He looked around the room for a couch or a rug to mask the cold hardwood floors, but found none. We have slept together, it's not like it would be that awkward. Though the circumstances are a tad different …
He settled for staying on top of the covers, ready to explain that there were a good two inches of fabric and a foot or so of space between them, should anyone ask. He kicked off his shoes and rolled on his side to face her. Despite the dark and his (seemingly huge) distance from her, he could make out the puffy eyes she now wore, and the pale face. He fell asleep contemplating whether or not to wake her up to force a sip of water.
She awoke to a fuzzy mouth and a hand, heavy but not uncomfortable, lying on her shoulder. She turned to find him on his stomach, one arm stretched towards her, the other under his head. He was almost completely dressed.
Her insides were mush as she remembered the day before. Just let it sit, she instructed herself, let it sit for a while and come back to it later. She remembered her mother laughingly telling her that same phrase, not about death, but about cooling pies. Same thing, she told herself, and barely stifled a giggle.
His head sprang up at the slight sound, and with a soggy "wassappening?" he pushed himself up on his elbow.
Half of his face had the imprint of his hand; an involuntary tattoo. His eyes were half-lidded and he looked as exhausted as she felt.
"Drink some water," he instructed her, pointing to the glass next on the table with a yawn.
She struggled to sit up and reached for the glass and drank, her throat grateful for the relief.
When she turned back to him, he was sitting propped up against the headboard, hands in his lap, twirling his thumbs awkwardly.
"So-o-o…" he started.
"How did I get undressed?" She asked with a little smirk.
He reddened a little, and mumbled, "Nothin' I ain't seen before."
They were silent for a while. She was incredibly embarrassed, and wished he would forget the night before. He was incredibly worried, and wished she would remember it.
"My brother died," she said finally, and the finality of the statement stunned her into a deep quiet that resonated throughout the room.
He waited for a spell, wondering if she would continue or if she would just leave it at that, a vague fact that echoed in his head.
She crawled over to him and laid her head in his lap, allowing herself to touch the feelings that were sloshing back and forth in her body. She wouldn't wallow – god forbid – but she might let it sink in a little, and if that meant lying in her boyfriend's lap while she did it, then so be it.
He brought his hand up to her head and made long, soothing strokes through her hair. He let his fingernails graze her scalp, as though extracting the rough patches out of her mind.
"I'm sorry," he said, because in truth it was all he really could think of.
When the first harsh reality was smooth and softened by her mind, she let out the next.
"They're going to spread his ashes in Rhode Island, where he lived. His wife is there."
"When?" He asked softly.
"Next Friday. They want to wait a little while."
"When did it happen?"
"Three days ago. I found out yesterday."
His hand paused over her head for a moment, but continued after a beat. He kept gently raking her head with the same tenderness as before, yet his mind was racing. Why the fuck did she got to work? What the hell was she thinking? Did I say anything mean to her? Was she sadder than normal? Did anyone else notice? Why didn't I know?
He knew about her brothers. There were two. He knew that one of them lived right outside of New York, but the other – he must be the one that died. He'd always assumed that the other brother had lived back with her folks, but now he knew. He racked his brain for any information he'd gathered about either of them.
"His name was David. I guess I never told you about him."
Thank God, he thought, thank God I didn't just forget. What kind of jerk would I be if I forgot?
He forced himself to stop thinking and focus on her. Every now and then he would lift her so she could drink some more water, but for the most part he kept his soft stroking of her hair.