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I sit there for a while, replaying the last ten minutes and getting more pissed at myself every time I do.

She hadn’t even asked for much. She wanted to know if I was okay, and somehow I managed to make her feel like she’d done something wrong for noticing that I wasn’t.

I pick up my phone.

Me:

Sorry.

I stare at the word before deleting it.

Sorry for what?

Being a dick? Lying to her all day? Letting her come over because I couldn’t bring myself to tell her not to, then practically chasing her out once she got here?

There’s no version of the apology that doesn’t lead straight into the question I’ve been avoiding.

What’s wrong?

I put the phone down.

That’s the part I can’t do.

For seven years, I’ve gotten through this day the same way. I keep moving until it’s over. I play hockey if I can. I don’t talk about Wayne, and I definitely don’t talk about the lake.

Usually, nobody gets close enough for that to be a problem.

Quinn is different.

She noticed something was wrong this morning before I’d even finished my coffee, and tonight she took one look at me and knew I was still off.

If I’d let her stay another hour, she probably would’ve kept asking, and eventually I would’ve had to either tell her or keep lying to her face.

Apparently, I chose option three and acted like an asshole until she left.

I rub both hands over my face.

“Fuck.”

Pickles opens one eye.

“Not you.”

He closes it again.

I get the Gibson out because I don’t know what else to do with myself. The same four chords come first, the ones my fingers always find without me thinking about them, and I play until the pressure in my chest eases enough that I can breathe without feeling like something is sitting on top of me.

It doesn’t stop me from thinking about Quinn.

Or Mom.

Or Wayne.

Especially Wayne.

He was too young when he died.

And I was his big brother.