As I watched him shrink in the rearview mirror, he pulled out the bottle and for a second it looked like he would leave it on the curb.
And then he took a swig. It was a hot afternoon in Indianapolis, the air thick and still like we were inside a cloud.
It was the worst kind of air for me, and I told myself it was just the air when the walk from his driveway to his front door felt infinite.
I rang the doorbell, and Gus’s mom answered. “Oh, Hazel,” she said, and kind of enveloped me, crying.
She made me eat some eggplant lasagna—I guess a lot of people had brought them food or whatever—with her and Gus’s dad.
“How are you?” “I miss him.” “Yeah.” I didn’t really know what to say.
I just wanted to go downstairs and find whatever he’d written for me.
Plus, the silence in the room really bothered me. I wanted them to be talking to each other, comforting or holding hands or whatever.
But they just sat there eating very small amounts of lasagna, not even looking at each other.
“Heaven needed an angel,” his dad said after a while. “I know,” I said.
Then his sisters and their mess of kids showed up and piled into the kitchen.
I got up and hugged both his sisters and then watched the kids run around the kitchen
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