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Or is it Julian grasping me, and everything just feels cold and numb now?
I turn, but I can’t see the details, just a hazy silhouette kneeling next to me.
Fingers grip me tight. Julian’s fingers.
Who’s fingers belong to the coldness?
Henry. He’s here, kneeling next to me.
Looking directly at me.
Crying.
Every little piece of me that feels broken now feels like it’s being swept up so it can be sorted out again. Hopefully, it will not be tossed aside.
For years, I waited for Henry’s hazel eyes to look at me. I always envisioned they’d be filled with hate, not tears.
He reaches for me, grabbing me from Julian's hold and tugging my chest against his so our hearts can share a mirrored pain of shock and grief.
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Poppy. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His voice continues to break and fade, making him sound like the little boy who used to play hide and seek with me in the backyard.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He repeats.
I want to reach up and hug him back. Why can’t my arms move?
I open my lips. Why can’t I speak?
Henry’s hand gently probes my back, touching as if he’s not sure I’m real.
It’s confusing me, this comfort, this love.
“I know we have a lot to talk about,” he mutters, his lips close to my ear.“I just need you to know I’m sorry. I fucked up.”
I try to pull away, but he hugs me tighter. I realize then that he needs to say this without looking me in the eye. It’s easier and allows for more clarity and less judgment—like a confessional box.
So I sink into him like jello poured into a mold, sensing Julian’s presence behind me.
“Why?” I whisper. It’s the million-dollar question that can be asked a trillion ways. Why did you leave? Why ignore me? Why care for me? Why?
His chest heaves. "I was mad at you, at myself, at Peter. Mad at the world. All I saw was red. It took me a lot of time to learn how to live seeing that color. And once I did, I didn’t want it to touch you. Taint you. I deserve your absence; I don’t deserve to have you in my life. You kept fighting for me all these years. I don’t deserve your love, Poppy. I deserve emptiness. I thought if I kept ignoring you, you’d see that and move on. You did."
I jerk; it feels like I’m a butterfly, finally breaking free from my cocoon. Henry’s here; I’m in his arms. But his words ripped my wings off.
"I didn’t leave because I wanted you to suffer, Henry. I didn’t stop fighting or caring. I just needed to start living again. I left, but that didn’t mean I wanted to live without you. You’re all I have left. You’re my last memory of Mom, Dad, and Peter." I look at the ash that was our home.“You’re my memories now. Please don't take that from me. Please don't leave and go back to ignoring me."
His chest rises sharply, his breathing ragged. Resting his chin on my shoulder, he murmurs close to my ear, "I'm not a good person. I'm not the boy you knew." His words tremble through the air between us, almost lost in the exhale.
I shift slightly, turning to face him, though his arms remain locked around me. "Then let me teach you how to be good again," I reply.
How do I fix him?
I press my cheek against his heart, his still beating heart. I close my eyes. It’s not too late. This is our second chance. I can hate him, but I can also forgive him.
We all handle grief differently. I know how I handled it; it wasn’t perfect. I lived life on repeat in the past.
Henry handled it by numbing himself.
Finally, my arms move, and I hug him back. My fingers press into his still-breathing flesh. Relief soothes me.
