It was like a little family reunion, albeit for a very sad occasion. I was sure that everyone had probably gathered here simply because they needed to be together -- arms around one another, providing support in this time when none of us could believe what was happening.

Mel and Linds would be arriving in the morning with Gus and J.R., but other than that, everyone was there. The mood was somber to say the least. There wasn’t much conversation happening, just random tears and words of shock uttered occasionally, as we all sat there together in Michael and Ben’s living room. Ben made a pot of coffee, and there was a sandwich tray and a plate of lemon bars that I recognized as being from the Liberty Diner sitting in the middle of their kitchen table.

I kept watching Brian with Michael, noticing that he seemed like a completely different person than the one I’d been with back in New York and on the plane, or even in the car on the way over to Michael and Ben’s. He appeared to have shifted into a caretaker role the second we came through the door -- now, he was being strong for Michael. But that was making me dread what would happen later when he finally let go of all that he was holding back. And I knew he was holding a lot back.

It was a little past midnight when Ben brought Emmett another cup of coffee and said, “You know, Deb would hate all of us sitting around here being sad over her.”

“She’d probably be the one telling us to get the fuck over it already,” Ted said, staring into his own coffee cup.

“So why don’t we share some good memories? Let’s think of her and smile,” Ben said. “I’ll start. I’m grateful that she brought Hunter back to us. When Michael was in the hospital after the bombing, Deb was the one who took him aside and made him think about whether or not he really wanted to go back to Florida, or if he’d rather stay here with us. He chose to stay, and it was all because of her. She changed his mind.”

My eye was drawn to Brian beside of me, who was absently running the tip of his left thumb up and down his thigh, staring down at the floor in front of him, his eyes dark. He was clearly somewhere else, but I wasn’t sure where. I reached out and took his other hand, squeezing it. He looked over at me and gave me a look that tried to say, “I’m okay,” but really didn’t.

“How about her gaudy Christmas display she’d put out in the yard every year?” Ted said. “I’m surprised her neighbors didn’t pass around a petition to make her cease and desist. I mean, bears in leather? Come on.”

We all laughed, remembering how ridiculous Deb’s yard had always looked every November and December (and sometimes well into January), with dozens of lighted displays and multicolored lights on every surface of the outside of the house -- a sharp contrast to the person who lived in the other half of the duplex who never decorated at all. I guess maybe they felt like they didn’t have to -- Deb decorated enough for both of them.

“She always had an open heart and an open home,” Emmett said. “That’s what I’ll always remember about her. Sometimes she gave some tough love, but she was always there to help you whenever you needed it.”

“Yeah, she helped everyone,” Brian said, his tone strangely bitter. “But what the fuck did any of us do for her? Sit around and tell stupid stories?” He pulled his fingers out of my grip and ran his hand over his mouth. Everyone in the room was looking at him, their faces full of confusion and surprise, save for Michael, who just looked sad. “I need some air,” Brian muttered, starting toward the front door, then going outside.

Everyone watched Brian go out the door as I got up from my chair and followed him. When I got out to the porch, Brian was sitting right outside the door, slumped forward with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. I could tell by the way his shoulders were shaking that he was crying, even though he wasn’t making a sound.

I grabbed one of the chairs that sat to the left side of the front door and pulled it over closer so I could sit next to Brian. I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him in close to me, and soon his arms were around me as well.

“Why don’t we go home?” I said softly. “You’re exhausted. We can come back in the morning.”

Brian let go and pushed away from me a little, raising his head to look at me as he said, “No. I just… I need a minute. I’m okay.”

“You’re not okay.”

Brian didn’t say anything to that. We both knew he wasn’t okay. But I also knew that he felt it was his duty to be there for Michael, no matter what. I watched as he wiped his tears, rubbed at his cheeks roughly with his palms, and took a few deep breaths -- transitioning into what he felt he needed to be at that moment, which was worlds away from what he actually needed. What he needed was to let go of what he was holding on to, and sit with Michael for awhile and just cry and grieve together, instead of trying to stuff down all of his own pain in an effort to be strong for Michael. But I knew there would be no convincing him of that.

I followed Brian back into the living room and took back my seat while Brian got himself positioned between me and Michael again. We’d come in to laughter, but Brian still looked like he was ready to break down at any moment. I saw it, and I was pretty sure everyone else saw it too, but no one said a word.

Brian spent the next hour disengaged, just sitting there, not saying anything, most of the time staring at his hands or the floor, while everyone else shared stories and happy memories of Deb. I couldn’t bring myself to pay attention to any of them, because my focus was on Brian -- on making sure he was okay. I was so absorbed in that task that I didn’t hear what was said that made Michael break down and sent Brian into action, soothing and comforting Michael alongside the others, now back in full caregiver mode until Ben took over, helping Michael up from the couch and taking him upstairs.

Ben came halfway back down the stairs a few minutes later, just far enough to see us all to tell us that he was going to try to get Michael to lie down for a while, but we were all welcome to stay for as long as we liked. It wasn’t long, though, before everyone else decided to head home for the night, which meant Brian and I were finally headed back to our house as well.

I hadn’t really thought about how long Brian had been up until I heard his pained grunt as he got into the car at Michael’s and then out of the car again at our place. I remembered his alarm going off at 5 a.m., so by that point, he’d been up for more than 20 hours, and in his wheelchair for most of it, which we both knew was a quick ticket to exhaustion and pain for Brian.

A light had been left on for us in our living room, and there was a note on the kitchen counter from my mom, telling us that she’d picked up a few things for us at the grocery store. When I opened the fridge, I saw that my mom’s definition of “a few things” had still not changed over the years, because it was practically overflowing with food, and I was thankful that I had sent her a quick text message while we were on our way to the airport, because it was nice to not have to worry about things like that.

I’d tried to get Brian to eat something at Michael’s, but he told me both times I asked that he wasn’t hungry. The look on his face as he sat there in the kitchen -- zoned out and bone tired -- told me that there was no way I was getting him to eat anything tonight, even though we’d never had dinner. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen him looking that spent, even when he was sick.

I closed the refrigerator door and turned back toward Brian. My heart was aching for him, and I wished there was something I could do to make this easier, even though I knew that was impossible. I hurt for all of us, really, but from what I’d seen tonight, it seemed like Brian was taking this harder than anyone -- Michael included. The only difference was that Michael was the one who had broken down, and Brian had been fighting to hold it all in. He still was, sitting just a few feet from me in the middle of our kitchen.

“Do you want anything?” I said, figuring I would offer, knowing that it was a long shot. “Food? Water?”

Just as I thought he would, Brian shook his head. I knew he probably wouldn’t drink water this late at night anyhow, but I wasn’t sure he’d had anything to drink since we left New York, since he’d turned down coffee at Michael’s. I made a mental note to myself that I was going to have to be extra vigilant the next few days to be sure Brian was taking care of himself, while at the same time, trying to process my own grief.

Brian’s grief ran much deeper, but that didn’t mean mine wasn’t there, and I knew the next few days would be a delicate balance of not letting myself replicate what I’d seen earlier that night with Brian -- setting my own needs aside for his, to my own detriment.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” Brian mumbled, running his fingers through his hair before he turned and went toward the bedroom. I followed him, pushing our suitcases along, and watched as he stripped his shirt off, then started working his pants down, which he barely had the energy to do at that point.

I wasn’t sure whether or not he’d want to shower together, but he left the bathroom door open, so I took that as an invitation -- one that I was glad for, because I wanted to take care of my partner tonight.

I pulled towels out of the linen closet while I watched Brian transfer to the built-in seat in the shower, depending more on the grab bar to pull himself over than I’d seen him do in a long time. He held onto it while he leaned forward to turn the water on, then leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, letting the water run over him.

I quickly stripped my own clothing off and stepped into the spray of the second shower head -- grateful for this shower that Brian had obviously had designed with two people in mind.

Brian was tiredly reaching for the shampoo when I took his hand and laid it back in his lap.

“I’ll take care of everything,” I said. “You just relax.”

He leaned back and closed his eyes while I washed his hair and then his body. I couldn’t tell if this was all just fatigue, or if the emotional numbness was back as well. I was using the handheld sprayer to rinse Brian off when I felt my own emotions start to bubble over.

Thankfully, Brian seemed too lost in his own tiredness to notice me sniffling and wiping my eyes as I thought about what it really meant that we were never going to see Debbie again. Her smile, her red wig, her gaudy jewelry, and her funny t-shirts. Never again would she be calling us just to check in and give us unsolicited advice like mothers do. I wondered how hard it was going to be for Brian on his birthday next year when she didn’t call him to sing. How hard Christmas was going to be for all of us in less than two months’ time. How different everything would be from here on out -- every holiday, every moment, every day.

Our world had been changed forever -- swapped for one without Debbie Novotny in it.

I stood there under the shower spray, letting the water run down my face and my body, mingling with the tears that were running silently down my face. Brian was still sitting with his back against the wall, eyes closed, looking like he was ready to fall asleep right there. I hoped he would be able to get some rest tonight -- I knew he needed it. We both did.