The next morning, neither Brian nor I wanted to get out of bed. Neither of us wanted to start this day. But we had to. We didn’t have a choice.

I ended up being the first one to drag myself out of bed, leaving Brian lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. I knew he was dreading the events of the day just as much as I was -- I could feel it in the slight hesitancy of the good morning kiss he’d given me, as if he didn’t want to admit it was morning at all.

When I made it out into the living room, I found Rob’s empty wheelchair by the window and Rob on the floor on his yoga mat, sitting in a deep forward fold. He lifted his head when I came into the room and gestured toward the kitchen. “Coffee’s almost done,” he said quietly. “I’ll start breakfast when more people are awake.”

I nodded and walked into the kitchen, noting that the day still didn’t quite feel real. My brain knew that today was Debbie’s visitation, but my heart didn’t want to embrace that fact. It wanted to believe that she’d come barging through the door at any moment, her arms full of breakfast casserole, the way she’d done on more than one occasion when Brian and I were in town. But that wasn’t going to happen. Not this time. Not ever again.

I pulled a mug down out of the cabinet and poured myself a cup of coffee, then grabbed the carton of half and half out of the refrigerator, where most of the food my mother had filled it up with had now been made into various prepared dishes in neat stacks of glass containers. Once my coffee was sweetened and lightened to my liking, I sat down at the table and watched Rob move through his yoga practice.

We’d been going to class together once a week, on most weeks, for more than a year, and I never ceased to be impressed with the things Rob could do on his yoga mat, and the creative ways in which he’d use blocks, blankets, or a bolster -- or whatever else he could get his hands on if he wasn’t at the yoga studio -- to help himself get into certain positions. But I also knew that it wasn’t really about the postures at all. For Rob, yoga was about natural pain relief as well as the mental benefits he got from the practice -- the mental clarity he gained from taking an hour or so to just be in his body, being mindful of all of the different sensations within it, whether they were muted, normal, or missing.

I had been getting the same things out of it, even though my physical abilities were different. I’d found that yoga calmed my mind and gave me an anchor I could return to whenever I felt overwhelmed. I often wished I could get Brian to join me, because I knew it would help with his back pain if nothing else -- although Rob swore up and down that it helped with his own nerve pain as well. But Brian never would do it -- he preferred instead to continually tease Rob about corrupting me.

I closed my eyes right there at the kitchen table and breathed along, drawing a deep breath into the tension I could feel in my body. Trying to soften it with the exhale. Taking a moment to just be present and breathe, without worrying about what was to come. Wishing I’d be able to get Brian to do the same. Today was probably the day he’d need that the most.

Brian hadn’t slept very well -- he’d been up at least twice during the night, and had even taken a shower around 3 a.m., which I knew meant he was hurting and desperate for relief. I’d been able to tell from his breathing when he was in bed that he was extremely uncomfortable. He’d been fitfully sleeping when I woke up, but my movement quickly woke him too, unfortunately.

When he joined me in the kitchen, his hair was sticking up in every direction, and I could tell by looking at him that he felt like shit. He looked exhausted. But there wasn’t any more time to sleep. We were due at the funeral home before noon for the private family viewing before the visitation, when we’d all have to be “on” for the throng of people coming to pay their respects to Deb. I was dreading that, and I knew everyone else was too.

But what we did have to look forward to was a family dinner at Debbie’s house -- one last gathering before Michael and Ben planned to sell the house to help pay some of Debbie’s final expenses. Rob and Adam had volunteered to take care of all of the food, so all we would have to do was show up -- much like it had been when Debbie was alive. What really mattered, though, was that we would all have time together as a family, in the place where we’d celebrated together, mourned together, and truly become a family.

The last 24 hours had served to remind me of how our New York family was just as important. I honestly had no idea what sort of shape Brian or I would be in if it weren’t for Rob, Adam, and their girls, stepping in to take care of whatever we needed -- on purpose, in the case of Rob and Adam, or by accident, with Esme and Sophia. I had already thanked Rob several times for everything, but he kept insisting that no thanks was required -- he was simply doing what friends do. “Friends take care of each other,” he’d said.

I knew he was right, but I still felt that Brian and I were so lucky to have met them. Just as I was lucky to have been made a part of our little Liberty Avenue family all those years ago.

Rob made us all breakfast, and we showered and got ready for the day -- at least, as ready as we ever would be. I wasn’t sure we ever could truly be ready for this. The drive over to the funeral home felt like it took forever, but I think I was okay with that, because I honestly didn’t want to go. If I could have turned back time and somehow brought Debbie back to life, I would have done it, no questions asked. But that wasn’t an option.

Eventually, we got there -- whether we wanted to or not -- and we had no choice but to get out of the car and go into the building. Brian hesitated at the front door, biting his lip and staring straight ahead, his hands gripping his wheels hard. I stopped behind him, laying my hand on his shoulder, feeling the tightness there, along with the slight hitch in his breath. After a moment, he reached forward and pulled open the door, waiting until I’d grabbed it to hold it open before he pushed himself through it. Next to the door stood a sign, printed in calligraphy, bearing Debbie’s name, that told us where to go. I didn’t want there to be a sign with her name on it in this place. Part of me still wanted to believe that none of this was real.

My heart was pounding in my chest. I’d always hated funerals, but I’d never had this sense of dread before. I had no idea how any of this was going to go. My stomach was in knots, twisted with the anxiety of being stuck in the unknown, feeling powerless.

Everything was getting far too real, and I wanted nothing more than to run.

I felt Brian’s fingers close around mine as he reached up to grab my hand, bringing me back to the present moment. Anchoring me. It was a nice reminder that I wasn’t alone -- that he was there to support me too, as much as I was supporting him.

We made our way down a short hallway, with Brian holding my hand until he couldn’t anymore, and we soon arrived at a room filled with chairs, with a couple of couches along one wall. Michael and Ben sat at the end of one of the couches, closest to the back of the room. Michael was clutching a tissue, slumped forward with his elbows resting on his knees while Ben rubbed his back. I focused all of my attention on the two of them, not wanting to look toward the front of the room, where out of the corner of my eye, I could just barely make out a casket. A casket that I knew held the body of the woman so many of us had thought of as a mother, whose sudden absence I was still having a hard time reconciling.

Brian got as close as he could to Michael, and the two of them shared a long hug. Those hugs had been frequent over the last few days. It was as if the two of them were drawing their strength from each other. I was glad they had one another -- that they always had, ever since they were boys -- but it still pained me to know what Brian was holding back. What he seemed to think he didn’t deserve to feel or show in front of anyone but me.

I stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do or say. I felt a hand on the small of my back and turned around to find Emmett, wearing a dark purple suit, with Drew standing behind him. Emmett pulled me into a hug that felt like it should have brought me a lot more comfort than it actually did. I wasn’t sure there was anything that could have comforted me at that moment, besides Debbie herself walking through the door, alive and well.

We were all still gathered at the back of the room when Mel and Linds walked in with Gus and J.R. behind them, and when Ted and Blake arrived shortly after that. Hugs were given and hushed whispers exchanged, but none of us moved from the back of the room.

Now was our chance to say our private goodbyes. Only it was a goodbye that clearly none of us wanted to say.

Michael and Ben were the first to get up and start moving toward the front of the room. Ben’s arm was around Michael’s shoulders as they progressed slowly up the aisle between the rows of chairs. Brian turned and followed them, as if he was being pulled by gravity -- or at least, by his impulse to take care of Michael. I followed Brian, and Emmett followed me, and soon we were all gathered around the casket, looking down at the still, unmoving face of Debbie Novotny.

It was weird, looking at her in her red wig and lipstick, her mischievous, sparkling eyes hidden behind closed lids. She looked like she was sleeping -- which was strange enough in itself, because Debbie had often seemed like the woman who never slept. She didn’t need to; she was essentially superwoman. Taking care of everything and everybody.

Now, we were on our own.

I felt Brian’s arm come around my waist. I looked down at him and saw that he had his other arm around Michael. Holding both of us, in the best way he could.

I was a little surprised Debbie wasn’t wearing one of her famously irreverent t-shirts that had become the stuff of Liberty Diner legend, but I figured Michael was probably the one who’d picked out her clothes, and he’d always hated those shirts. Some of them I think she wore just to piss him off or embarrass him. She was still dressed in bright colors with her big costume jewelry though, so she was still Debbie -- just a more muted version.

Michael broke down, turning toward Ben’s waiting embrace. Brian dropped his right arm back to his lap, staring straight ahead at Debbie’s body, barely blinking. Barely even breathing. I put my arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer to me, but he didn’t even acknowledge my touch. Ben led Michael to a chair, but Brian still sat there, staring. Emmett and Ted were holding each other, while Melanie and Lindsay did the same, their eyes shimmering with tears. I felt tears well up in my own eyes as my brain tried to process the seemingly unbelievable situation I was in.

Brian was blinking back tears of his own, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths, obviously fighting hard to hold himself together. I wanted to whisper to him that it was okay to cry -- to let it go, that he didn’t have to hold onto it all -- but I couldn’t make my voice work. It was as if we were both frozen there, trying to stay strong against the flood of emotion swirling around us, trying to pull us under.

I felt Brian let go of my waist, and watched as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Then, he sat up, shrugged my hand off of his shoulder and abruptly turned, pushing himself past Melanie and Lindsay, who stumbled trying to get out of his way, and back down the aisle, then out the door. I followed behind him, not sure where he was going, as he made his way down a narrow hallway, where I could see a door at the end. This felt like someplace we shouldn’t have been going, but I’d be damned if I was going to let Brian go alone, so as long as he was still moving, I was going to keep following him.

When he got to the door, he shoved it open and we ended up outside, toward the back of the building. The heavy, metal door slammed shut behind us, and that was the moment when Brian lost his grip on his emotions. He folded in on himself, his chest heaving with the force of the sobs that seemed to be wrenching themselves out of his body, unwilling to be held back any longer. I reached out for him and held him the best I could, still wishing I could do something to somehow make this hurt less. Still knowing that there was nothing. All I could do was what I was already doing.

I closed my eyes as we embraced, feeling my own tears making their way down my cheeks. Feeling a lot less strong than I wanted to be.

We stayed outside for a long time -- holding each other, crying, sometimes talking quietly, until Brian felt ready to go back in. By then, other people were starting to come in as well, and the rest of the afternoon became a blur of shaking hands and sharing hugs with near-strangers, all of whom seemed to have a story or two or three about Debbie. I kept eyeing Brian, but for the most part, he seemed okay -- like he’d flipped a switch and was back to being perfectly put-together, though I could still see the undercurrent of emotion running just beneath the surface.

Every time I looked around the room at the crowd that had assembled to pay their respects to Debbie, I couldn’t help but smile, even in the midst of the deep sadness we all felt. There was a literal rainbow of human beings -- probably the most diverse group this funeral home had ever played host to -- all of whose lives Debbie had touched in some way.

Soon, the crowd faded away, and we all said our goodbyes before making our way back to our vehicles with the promise that we would see each other later at Deb’s. Brian slumped down in the passenger seat of our rental car, his long, loud exhale a tangible sign of the relief I knew he was feeling inside. I felt it too. As nice as it was to hear everyone’s stories and share memories of Debbie, it had also been exhausting.

Brian rubbed his palms roughly over his thighs, kneading at them, and I knew in that moment what else he'd been fighting all afternoon, because that was something he only did when his legs were really bothering him. Not that the action or the touch actually did anything to relieve it, because the origin of the pain wasn't really his legs -- it was his spinal cord, sending exaggerated messages up the line to his brain.

When we got back to the house, Rob was in the kitchen again, this time preparing food for our family dinner that would start in a couple of hours, and Adam had taken the girls to the children's museum. Brian stayed in the kitchen with us for a few minutes, fidgeting and looking uncomfortable, before he mumbled something about needing to lie down and went into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Part of me wanted to go in there with him, to make sure he was okay, but I also knew he probably needed some private time. This was a difficult day for all of us, and I could only imagine how much harder it was for Brian.

It still seemed like it was even harder on Brian than it was on Michael, and I wasn't sure why. I kept getting the feeling there was something Brian wasn't telling me -- something deep beneath the surface that was exacerbating Brian's feelings about letting go of Debbie. But I didn't want to ask, because I didn't want to cause him any more pain. All I could do was hope that he might tell me, in his own time. Perhaps once he was ready to face it himself.

After a few minutes, Rob encouraged me to go check on Brian, pressing a glass of water into my hand to take to him. I knocked lightly on the bedroom door, hearing a muffled response that sounded more like a moan, before I pushed it open.

Brian was lying on his side in the middle of the bed, his knees pulled up toward his chest and his arms wrapped around his head.

“Head hurts,” he breathed. “My legs hurt. Everything fucking hurts.”

“Have you taken anything?” I set the glass of water down on the nightstand, hoping that if he hadn't, I would be able to convince him to do so. He had to stop trying to push through this. His body was already screaming at him, and it was only going to scream louder if he kept ignoring it.

Brian shook his head, not moving his arms from around it.

“I'll get you something,” I said gently. Maybe if I didn't ask -- if I left him no choice -- he would do what we both knew he needed to do.

But it wasn't that easy.

“I don't want to be late for dinner,” he said, finally unwinding his arms from his head and looking at me. I could see then that he'd been crying again, and I wished harder than ever that he would just let me in, all the way. Instead, I felt an odd distance between us -- the chasm created by what I didn't know and he wasn't willing to tell me.

“If we're late, then we're late. It's okay. You need to rest for a little while, or you aren't going to make it through dinner. And you need to take your meds. This is what they’re for -- so you don’t have to suffer through this.”

“That shit makes me dizzy.”

“Then we'll stay here in bed for a couple of hours.”

We went back and forth a few more times -- Brian arguing and me trying to be the voice of reason -- before Brian's pain kept him from responding for several seconds, and I took that time to go into the bathroom and retrieve the medication that I knew Brian desperately needed. By the time I got back with it, he seemed to recognize how desperately he needed it too, and he took it without protest.

I climbed into bed and laid down behind him, closing my own eyes as I pressed my body against his back, wondering what he was keeping inside.

Wishing he'd tell me, so I could help, or at the very least, just listen.