Brad stood by the wide glass windows of his living room, watching the tree branches dancing in the light breeze of the evening as dusk settled. The house felt unusually quiet. Too quiet. His father had retired for the day a couple hours ago, complaining of fatigue, while dismissing Brad's concern with one of his now repetitive jokes about aging bones.
Brad checked his watch again.
Clair should be done with her shift soon.
He smiled faintly at the thought of her—at how her laugh had crept into the normally quiet spaces of his life, how having her around had started to feel more like a necessity – and just because she took care of his dad. She had changed him, softened edges he hadn't realized had grown so sharp.
He turned when Jonas's voice drifted faintly from down the hall.
"Brad?"
"Yes, Dad?" he called back.
No answer.
He could have sworn he heard his father calling out to him.
Brad frowned and started down the hallway, his footsteps echoing softly against the polished floors. He knocked once on his father's bedroom door.
"Dad?"
Still no answer.
A knot tightened in his chest.
He pushed the door open.
Jonas lay asleep on the bed, his body unnaturally still, his skin pale beneath the lamplight. His mouth was slightly open, his chest unmoving.
"Dad?" Brad crossed the room in three long strides, his heart pounding violently now. He shook him once. Then harder.
Nothing.
"No, no—Dad!" His voice cracked as he pressed his fingers to Jonas's neck, searching desperately for a pulse that wasn't there.
Panic surged.
Brad grabbed his phone with shaking hands and dialed emergency services, his voice breaking as he tried to explain. He dropped the phone on the bedside table, his hands clumsy as he attempted CPR, tears blurring his vision.
Please.
Please don't leave me.
The sirens came too late.
The house was suddenly filled with people, noise and procedures, at least it wasn't so quiet anymore, but none of it mattered. Brad stood numb in a corner of his dad's bedroom and watched as the paramedics exchanged glances that said everything before the words were spoken.
Jonas had been dead at least an hour before Brad came in to check on him.
Minutes later, the house was quiet and empty again.
Brad sat alone on the edge of the couch, his father's blanket still folded neatly over the armrest. He stared at the space where Jonas usually sat, the echo of his voice still lingering in the air, almost filling it so much so it became hard to breathe.
He couldn't stay in this house alone, a minute longer.
Instinctively—desperately—his thoughts went to Clair.
Not because she was a nurse.
Because he loved her.
Brad stood abruptly, grabbing his car keys. He didn't think. Didn't pause. He just knew he couldn't be alone tonight.
________________________________________________________________
Clair was in the kitchen when she heard Clarissa laughing in the living room, the sound light and carefree. It made her chest ache in a way she couldn't quite place.
As she stirred the pot, her thoughts drifted—dangerously—to Brad. To the way his hands had felt on her back. To their future together he spoke about so convincingly. So happily.
She wiped her hands on a towel just as Toby walked into the kitchen, loosening his work boots.
"Dinner smells good," he said with a smile.
She smiled back "Almost ready."
"And keep those muddy boots outside or there'll be none for you," she added.
Clarissa padded in moments later, her small hands sticky with juice, her curls slightly undone. She wrapped her arms around Clair's legs.
"Mummy," she said softly.
Clair bent down, pressing a kiss into her daughter's hair, guilt blooming sharply in her chest.
She straightened just as she heard a soft knock at the door.
They barely heard the knock in the middle of the ruckus going on in the kitchen.
Toby frowned. "Were you expecting someone?"
The knock came again, firmer this time.
For some reason, Clair was getting a foreboding, but she tried to shrug it off.
"You both should go get washed for dinner, I'll get the door," she said, already moving.
Each step toward the door felt heavier than the last. Her thoughts raced—Who would come this late? A neighbor? Another delivery from Brad maybe? Would that be something, she almost chuckled, and suddenly felt at ease.
She reached the door and pulled it open.
Brad stood on the porch.
His face was pale, his eyes hollow, grief etched so deeply into his expression it stole the breath from her lungs.
For a split second, everything else around her disappeared.
"Brad?" she whispered.
His eyes met hers.
And suddenly all her lies and secrets were standing right behind her.