Reunited (Monday, May 18) 2

“How’s your family?” he asked, his smile warm and wide.

“I was hoping to see your mom again... maybe taste one of her famous patties. No one made them like she did.”

I looked down, my throat tightening.

“Sadly... my parents passed away two years ago,” I said, the words catching in my voice.

“There was a break-in at the house we used to live in. Only my parents were home... and they were shot.”

I paused, swallowing hard.

“When I came home that evening, I found them lying on the kitchen floor. I got there too late.” I wiped a few tears from my cheeks, trying to keep my voice steady.

Brian didn’t say anything at first. Then he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me.

“Jane... it wasn’t your fault,” he said gently.

And in that moment, I wanted to fall apart in his arms — those same arms I had missed for so many years. But instead, I held it together. I smiled — not for him, but for myself — and continued.

“Amelia, my older sister, left a year ago. She’s studying abroad now, so I take care of my two younger brothers — Mathias and Elhoïme.”

I chuckled softly, lifting my eyes to his.

“Oh, right! You probably remember... my mom was pregnant just before you guys left. That was Mathias. He’s ten now. Always serious, always holding a book — he reminds me of you at that age. And Elhoïme came five years later — he’s a ball of energy.”

I smiled again, a little more sincerely this time.

“They’re both really smart. And beautiful. I wish you could meet them, but they’re with my best friend Fernanda right now.”

I tilted my head.

“Remember her? She just got married, by the way. The boys love spending time at her place. But they’ll be back tonight, so... if you want, you could come over for dinner. I’d love to introduce you.”

I said all of that in one breath, maybe to hide the pain that still lingered behind my words.

Brian let out a soft laugh, still holding me by the waist as he pulled back just slightly.

“Slow down,” he said playfully.

“First of all — how could I ever forget dear Fernanda? With those massive braces that took up half her mouth... and that creepy habit of following me everywhere.”

“Brian!” I laughed, gently slapping his arm.

“No, no — let me finish,” he said, grinning.

“I’m glad to hear she’s doing well and that she finally found someone who deserves her. And as for dinner — I’d love to come. I’d be honored to meet your brothers.”

Sorry, I talk too much,” I said, realizing I’d gone on a little ramble.

“Don’t worry,” he replied with a soft laugh. “You’ve always done that, even as a kid.”

“Hey!” I shouted, pretending to be offended.

He grinned, stepping a little closer. “What did we used to call you again? Oh right…”

He leaned in, until our bodies nearly touched.

“Madame Chatterbox.”

I gently pushed him away, a little flustered by how close he’d gotten.

“How’s your mom?” I asked, quickly changing the subject.

“She’s… okay, I guess. She doesn’t really talk about herself — or how she feels. Ever since we left, she’s been stuck in her own little bubble. No one’s allowed in. Not even her own son.”

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.

“Don’t be. It was harder at first. I think… part of her saw my father when she looked at me. But over time, she softened. She worked hard — harder than anyone I know. And thanks to her, we’ve been able to live a pretty decent life.”

He paused.

“She’s in New York right now, actually.Supposed to be back in a week. I’m sure she’d be happy to see you again.”

“Thanks.”

We stood there for a moment, just looking at each other. Neither of us moved. Neither of us wanted to break whatever fragile thing had just settled between us.

Then I took a small step back, reluctantly.

“Well… I should go,” I said, already missing the warmth of his presence.

“So… tonight at 6:37?”

He laughed. “Why 6:37? Why not 6:35? Or better yet, 6:30?”

“Because I need those seven minutes to get ready. Trust me.”

“Alright then,” he smiled. “6:37 it is. I’ll be on time.”

(Time skip)

Brian arrived at 6:37 p.m. sharp. Not early, not late—just perfectly on time, like always. I watched from the kitchen window as he crossed the street with a bottle of wine in one hand and a tray of something wrapped in foil in the other. My heart did that annoying stutter thing again. I hated that it still reacted that way. Especially for someone who had vanished from my life for over a decade.

I opened the door before he even had the chance to knock.

"Hey," he smiled, his eyes scanning my face like he was memorizing it again.

"Come in," I said quickly, stepping aside.

The house smelled like rice, something slightly burnt, and a cheap lavender candle I'd lit to cover the scent. The boys were upstairs, arguing over who would set the table. I’d begged them to behave, and for once, they seemed to be trying.

"You cooked?" Brian asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"Yes, but please be gentle with your judgment," I muttered, taking the tray from his hands. "I work two jobs. Not exactly living that chef life."

He chuckled, following me into the kitchen. "Still smells better than my cooking. I once lit pasta on fire. True story."

I raised a brow. "How do you even manage to light pasta on fire?"

"You’d be surprised what I’m capable of when I’m hungry and unsupervised."

I couldn't help but laugh.

He looked around the kitchen and then turned toward me. "You live here alone with them?"

I nodded, trying not to show how heavy that question felt. "Amelia left a year ago. Went to France. We haven’t heard from her since."

Brian frowned. "She never reached out? Not even once?"

"Not even a postcard." I pulled two plates from the cabinet and forced a smile. "So, it’s just me, Mathias, and Elhoïme now."

As if summoned, they came running down the stairs.

"Is he here?" Mathias shouted.

"I want to see the guy with the muscles!" Elhoïme added, skidding into the kitchen in his socks.

Brian laughed and crouched slightly. "Hey guys. I’m Brian."

Mathias, ever the serious one, extended a hand like a tiny adult. "I’m Mathias. I read twenty books a month."

Brian shook it solemnly. "That’s more than I do in a year. Impressive."

Elhoïme just threw his arms around Brian’s waist like he’d known him forever.

I stood there, arms crossed, watching this unfold like it was happening in someone else’s house. Like maybe I was just passing through and didn’t belong in this moment of warmth and connection.

Dinner was simple: rice and beans, fried plantains, and a chicken stew I’d nearly burned when I’d forgotten it on the stove earlier. Brian didn’t seem to mind. He complimented everything. Even the overcooked patties I’d tried to replicate from my mother’s recipe.

The boys talked nonstop. About school, video games, a kid named Jordan who always got in trouble, and the time Elhoïme tried to build a rocket out of soda bottles and almost blew up the shed.

I ate quietly, my eyes drifting between Brian and the boys, trying to remember when life had gotten so full and so empty at the same time. I was exhausted. All the time. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept more than five hours in a row. Or eaten a proper breakfast. Or even cried properly. My grief didn’t fit into the schedule. It sat in the corners, between shifts and lunchboxes, waiting for a moment I’d never give it.

Brian caught me staring and tilted his head. "You okay?"

I blinked. "Yeah. Just... tired."

After dinner, the boys insisted on showing Brian their room. Mathias showed him his book collection, and Elhoïme tried to convince him to stay for a video game battle. Brian agreed, to their delight.

I stayed behind to clean up. My shoulders ached. My back throbbed. I hated the dishes. I hated the silence. I hated how easy it was to feel alone even with laughter upstairs.

Twenty minutes later, he came back down.

"They want me to move in," he said, grabbing a towel to help me dry.

"Of course they do. You have muscles and you let them win."

He smirked. "Maybe. But also... maybe they just need someone."

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. My throat tightened again.

"You do everything on your own, Jane. How do you even manage?"

"I don’t have a choice," I whispered. "When no one shows up, you learn to show up for yourself."

He didn’t say anything at first. Then he placed the plate on the counter and turned to me.

"You don’t have to do it alone forever."

I looked at him. Really looked at him.

"Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Brian."

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "I’m not twelve anymore. And I don’t run away. Not anymore."

That night, when he left, he hugged me again. A little longer this time.

And for the first time in a very long time, I let someone hold me.

And I didn’t pull away.