There’s a slight crunch to the green grass, hinting at the drought California seems to be perpetually experiencing. The perfectly manicured lawn and birds chirping happily in the air are deceptive. Close your eyes and you would think you’re in a park, the heat of the sun warming your face, the slight breeze coming from the Pacific Ocean.
You’d never guess you were in a cemetery until you open your eyes and see gray gravestones as far as the eye can see, with big trees here and there offering some shade.
My steps carry me to the familiar marker, moving without thought as I walk the path I’ve walked so many times in the last eleven months. But then my body halts when my gaze lands on a pair of legs standing in front of Robbie’s grave. My gaze moves up to the broad back, but it’s the tattoo sleeves on both arms and the beanie on his head that give away his identity. A rush of relief courses through me that he’s not dead somewhere with a needle in his arm.
I’ve already lost one person—my mom—that way; I can’t lose another.
“Kasen.”
His back stiffens, and then he slowly turns around. His cheeks are fuller than the last time I saw him, his skin healthier and not so pale. But it’s his eyes that convince me he’s been sober for a while. They’re clear, despite the shine of tears in them.
“Tris.”
We step forward at the same time, and I wrap him in a tight hug, thankful I don’t have to process another loss right now.
“Where the fuck have you been?” I ask him as I step back.
He drops his head, shaking it before looking back up at me. “I had to get out of LA. There was too much temptation here.” He rubs the back of his neck, and a pain fills his eyes I’m familiar with. “I…I know it was my fault and I—”
“Hold up,” I say, reaching out to grip his arm. “What the fuck do you mean it was your fault?”
His eyes fill with more tears, one slipping free. “Don’t make me say it, Tris.”
“You’re gonna have to because I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
He closes his eyes like he can’t look at me and chokes out his next words. “It’s my fault Robbie died. I did this to him,” he says, gesturing to the grave behind him with Robbie’s name etched on it.
“Did drugs give you some kind of superpower I’m unaware of?”
His brows furrow and he frowns. “What are you talking about?”
“Did you give him a heart attack?”
“No, but—”
“No ‘buts’ about it, Kase. Robbie had a genetic condition and bad fucking luck.”
“He was stressed because of me! He wasn’t taking care of himself because of me!” he screams, dropping to his knees, his head falling into his hands as he hides his tears. But he can’t hide the sound of his sobs.
I drop down to my knees and pull him against me, holding him as he lets it all out. My own tears fall silently down my face, but I don’t make a sound or move a muscle. Instead, I hold Kasen while he lets out his grief and stare at the gravestone wondering if I’ll ever stop feeling Robbie’s loss.
It’s been nearly a year and yet some days we all seem as broken as we were when it happened. The more time that passes, the more I start to believe death is easy for those who experience it. It’s the loved ones left behind who are forced to suffer.
When will the suffering finally stop? When does the grief get easier to bear? And how long will it take for us to feel whole again?
Trent opens his front door and freezes, his eyes wide like he’s staring at a ghost before his face breaks out in a relieved smile as he steps forward and wraps Kasen in a tight hug.
“Fuck, it’s good to see you, man.” He pulls away, leveling a serious stare at Kase. “Don’t fucking do that to us again, got it?”
Kasen nods but seems too choked up to speak. I stay silent as we’re ushered inside where Becka is setting taco fixings on the table. To her credit, her eyes only widen slightly before she smiles and then wraps Kasen in a big hug.
“I’m glad you’re back,” she says as she pulls away. “I’m also glad I made extra. I hope you guys plan to stay for dinner because there’s more than enough.”
“I’d like that,” Kasen says, his usual happy and carefree party boy persona nowhere to be seen.
We move to the table, but Trent grabs me around the elbow and pulls me aside, out of hearing range from Kasen and whispers, “Where’d you find him?”
“Robbie’s grave.”
Trent glances at Kasen, his gaze filled with worry and those creases between his eyebrows furrowing. “Is he okay?”
I shake my head. “He blames himself.”
I didn’t think it was possible for Trent’s frown to get any deeper, but it does. “Shit, I was worried about this.”
I slap his back. “Put that worry in the backseat for now, brother. He’s here. He’s sober. We can worry tomorrow.”
He nods, but I can tell by the way he watches Kasen and chews on the inside of his cheek that he’s still worrying.
We eat our tacos, and Becka—bless her heart—guides the conversation with plenty of safe topics. We’ve all had our fair share of food when Kasen changes the subject. He shifts in his chair and drops his gaze to where his hands fidget with his napkin on the table.
“I know I don’t deserve another chance, but I’d really like to stay in the band.”
Silence descends on the table while we all stare at Kasen.
Trent clears his throat, then leans forward, his hands clasped on the table in front of him and his blue gaze that’s so similar to mine locked on Kasen’s. “We let you down.”
Kasen opens his mouth to speak, but Trent holds his hand up to stop him.
“We did. I don’t care what you say. Yes, you’re responsible for your choices and you chose drugs, but we made choices too. We chose to keep our distance and play defense when we should’ve been there for you, gotten you into treatment again sooner. We should’ve—”
“Stop,” Kasen interrupts. “You couldn’t have done anything different. I did this. I put us here. I…” His voice cracks and his eyes fill with unshed tears. His voice is strained when he speaks. “I…I’m responsible for myself and my actions, and the impact those actions had on others.”
“Robbie’s death wasn’t your fault,” Trent says.
Kasen’s head drops, and only the drop of a tear staining his shirt gives away the emotion he’s trying to hide.
After a long moment of silence, he looks back at Trent. “It’s going to take a long time for me to believe that.”
Trent reaches across the table and places his hand on Kasen’s. “We’ll still be here for when you finally do.”
“So I’m back in the band?”
“You were never out,” Trent says.
Kasen looks to me for confirmation, and I give him a nod, then take a sip of my water in a weak attempt to wash down my own emotions this conversation has brought to the surface.
It might not be much, but having Kasen back feels like it starts to heal the cracks which have permeated our existence—as individuals and as a band—since Robbie died.
It gives me hope that maybe someday we will feel whole again.