Page 59 of Grief & Glitter

“And not only about Noah.” I glanced at him. Dad shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “We could talk about other things. Hockey?”

I groaned.

“Not hockey?”

“You always talk about hockey.”

“I thought you liked hockey.”

“I do.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

I stared at him, and he stared back. Then he sighed.

“Okay.” He brightened. “There’s more to your life than hockey. We could talk about Ryan.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What about Ryan?”

Dad looked confused. “Nothing. Jesus. I like Ryan.”

“Good.”

“He makes you happy.”

“He does.”

“I know.”

No big announcement, no acceptance speech. Dad had spent nearly two weeks watching us together, seeing Ryan from the start, beside me in the hospital bringing coffee, finding food, sitting quietly when there was nothing useful to say.

Dad bumped my shoulder with his. “Tell him thanks for making you happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.”

I thought about Ryan waiting outside Noah’s hospital room. Ryan driving when I couldn’t. Ryan waking beside me every morning in that shitty hotel room, never once asking when we were going home. Hell, I thought about a lot of things as I drove around for a while. When I got back to the hotel, Ryan was asleep on his side on top of the comforter, his phone loose in one hand. There was glitter on his eyelids. The TV was flickering silently across the room, subtitles running beneath two people arguing in a kitchen.

He’d gone out yesterday while I was at the center visiting Noah and came back with two new palettes because, apparently, Michigan had makeup unavailable anywhere else on Earth. I stood in the doorway and looked at him. For two weeks, he’d been here, no complaints, no questions about how long, no reminders that he had a job or a dad or a life waiting for him back in Rochester. He’d admitted he’d told his dad about Noah, worried I’d be pissed that he’d shared something so personal. I wasn’t. Ryan needed someone in his corner too.

He’d found a laundromat when we ran out of clean clothes. He made sure I ate. He sat on the bathroom counter every morning doing his face while I stood under the shower trying to work out how I was supposed to get through another day.

At night, he climbed into bed beside me. Sometimes we kissed. Mostly we slept. Some nights I woke with my heart trying to punch through my ribs and Ryan’s hand already flat against my chest. Once I woke crying, and he never mentioned it the next morning. I loved him for that. I loved him, full stop, and that was becoming harder to pretend I hadn’t worked out.

I locked the door, and Ryan stirred, his eyes opening slowly.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

He pushed himself upright and rubbed one eye.

“Careful,” I warned. “You’ll get glitter in your eyes.”

“Fuck.” He peered at his fingers, and I laughed. “How was it?” he asked.

I took off my jacket. “Hard.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He waited. “Good too.”