taste | e.d

twenty-seven

Ethan

When I open my eyes, the first thing I see is her brown hair spread out all around her head in a dark halo. The sunlight coming through the blinds casts stripy shadows over her face. She wears my dark blue Shadowhill sweater, as she has every night for the last two months. It's big enough on her to not have to wear shorts or leggings under it, but she moves around a lot when she sleeps. The hem is hiked halfway up her stomach now.

She also hogs the blanket, but it's the cutest fucking thing ever. She always cocoons herself in it and presses herself against me. I could never be mad at her for that. Sometimes, to mess around, I'll pull at it and take it off her so she wakes up and we play this game of tug-of-war that ends up with neither of us winning. We just go back to sleep. Or at least she does. For me, some nights will be so good I'll sleep until two in the afternoon. In others I'll only catch an hour or two before I wake up in fear that my nightmares are not too far along. Most of the time, I stare at her when she sleeps, like I am now.

Beautiful.

I get up slowly so I don't wake her and make my way to the bathroom. I pull up the leg of my sweats, revealing the tattoos I haven't dared to show her yet. They say too much about my past, the side of me I've been hiding for too long.

When I showed her my lip tattoo, I didn't tell her what it meant, and she didn't ask. It was perfect. Like she didn't expect anything more from me other than to love her.

Jesus, I hurt that woman so much.

I look in the mirror at the person peering back at me. For so long he seemed older, mid-twenties, maybe a little more. Now, as his skin is regaining color, as his face is no longer worn down by the weariness of sorrow, he looks his age. He's turning twenty-two soon, in a month or two. His hair's gotten long, the way it did when he was sixteen.

My fingers run through the long strands. About time I got a trim. Maybe I could ask my mom to do it.

After brushing my teeth, I exit the bathroom through the door leading into the hallway and make my way down to the garage, where I pull down the door to the attic and climb up the worn wooden stairs. There are boxes and boxes of old things. Our old TCA surfboard. Our skateboard rack. A purple foam block from the warehouse we owned once. I find the box I filled with family photos. I have plenty on my phone, but the framed ones always have a way of making me feel more nostalgic.

When I open the dust-covered box, I get a gut-wrenching feeling that makes my body feel heavy. On top is a photo of me, my mom, my dad, my sister, and Grayson. We took it in Jersey after the first show of our tour. The first thing I notice is the euphoria on my face and Grayson's. That night changed our lives. I'm smiling with all my teeth, which I hardly did in family photos. Grayson looks completely flushed with happiness, his smile radiating everything he felt.

Before the first tear falls, I put the photo back and place the lid on the box. If I cry now, I know I'll never stop.

I leave the attic and the garage and make my way back up the stairs. The kitchen comes into view, but for once the sinking feeling in my chest doesn't come. Looking at the kitchen would only remind me of Grayson cooking. He'd whip up banana pancakes or do other things, like the one time he decided to buy a grill and everything we ate was grilled for weeks after that. He even grilled things that weren't supposed to be grilled.

That's really how things are now. I'll see things that remind me of him and I'll feel less for them than I did before.

I miss him more than anything, but I can live without him as much as it fucking hurts.