Sinclair

Chapter Forty-Three: Tears

THE THING ABOUT death is that it makes us reflect on ourselves. Especially when it hits so close. You begin to wonder about things you may never have thought of before. Why am I here? What's my purpose? What kind of legacy will I leave behind? It's just a never-ending waterfall of thoughts you may never know the answer to swirling around in your head.

We held Hal's funeral two days after my therapy session with Melissa. His mom was there and so was his kid. Even his ex-girlfriend—the mother of his child—was there. Hal's mother wore a look on her face that is heartbreak in its truest form and none of us—not even the most cheerful members on the Iron Order—can find it in us to crack a smile even to comfort the other. There's not a dry eye among us and when I look at Sinclair, I see him staring straight ahead with a stoic expression, his eyes misting over as he struggles to keep the tears from spilling over.

Hal was his mentor, his friend. He had been like an older brother to Sinclair. He'd even taught Sinclair how to speak English when he came over from France. I hadn't known Hal very well--we weren't close—but I do remember this: if I had ever called Hal for anything he would have come running to help me. Even if he didn't know me well, he would have come over to help me in a heartbeat if I had asked him to. He was very much the older brother of the group, yelling at them to "shut the fuck up" when I would tell the guys stories and they'd get too rowdy on certain parts.

Remembering him makes tears sting in my eyes and seeing Sinclair in pain makes those tears spill over. If Sinclair can't cry here, in front of all these people, then I'll cry for the both of us.

As we drive home from the funeral, the car is so silent, it's loud. Sinclair decided he didn't really want to go to the reception—the funeral had been hard enough on him—and, after paying respects to Hal's mother and expressing his sympathies to Hal's son, Sinclair gripped my hand tightly and steered me toward the car; it was too cold for him to drive anywhere on his motorcycle now.

I peek over at him, feeling a little worried. To anyone who doesn't know Sinclair the way I know him, he seems completely unbothered. His face is smooth and his hands are steady on the wheel; he is the picture of serenity. But I can see past all of that. His face is too smooth, too stoic and his eyes are doing that thing where they become so dark, it's like looking at the sky before it rains. His eyes do the same thing when he's looking at me, but this darkness is different. I've only seen it when he mentions his brother and the regret he carries for not being there to save him. And his hands on the wheel are too steady. It's like he's gripping the wheel so that he doesn't fall into some ugly, gaping darkness that's threatening to swallow him whole.

I know that feeling. I experienced it after my father left my mother, my brother and me. Maybe he didn't die like Hal had, but that feeling was the same. The feeling of powerlessness, the finality of the whole situation.

It makes you feel empty.

I try to think of something to say to him, something that will make him feel better. I don't like seeing Sinclair this way, with eyes that look like a thunderstorm is raging behind them rather than the clear, shining gray eyes I've grown accustomed to. But nothing will come to mind. I don't know what I should say or what I should do. I don't know how to be there for him.

It makes me feel worthless beyond my wildest dreams.

Once we reach his apartment, we quietly make our way inside. His apartment complex is quiet as always—just what you'd expect from an apartment complex located in one of the richest cities in North Carolina—but today, it feels too quiet. I'm looking for anything funny to happen, grasping at straws and looking for an excuse to start up a conversation but I don't find one.

Finally, I decide that sometimes silence is the best course of action. Sometimes, just sitting with someone in silence can do more for them than words ever can. I recall the time Sinclair found me crying in my car, the way he sat with me and just let me snot all over him. I hadn't noticed it at the time, but there was something so refreshing about mindlessly blubbering and not having to speak.

I turn to Sinclair only to see that he's not looking at me. He's moved over to his couch and he's just staring at the ceiling like it holds the answers to all the world's questions. He looks exhausted and I want to touch the dark circles beneath his eyes. He hasn't slept a wink since Hal's mother announced the funeral date. He's busied himself with work and finding Lucky and driving me to meet with Leila. He's done everything he could to avoid thinking about Hal.

When I sit down beside him, he doesn't move an inch. I put my hand on his and squeeze.

"You don't have to talk to me," I say, quietly. "We can just sit here."

For a while, there's no response. I think that that's pretty fair. He's kind of screwed up right now and I didn't really expect for him to respond to me. He doesn't move, he doesn't speak, he doesn't give any sign that he's heard anything I said.

Then, I see him swallow hard and he moves his hand out of mine only to position himself so he can rest his head on my lap. It brings back memories. This is what he did on the anniversary of his brother's death. I remember after he told me the story how I kept that date solidified in my memory; the date of the day that changed him forever. On that day, I remember how neither of us spoke, he just laid his head on my lap and we stayed that way for hours.

I stroked his hair gently, the soft silk spilling through my fingers. And then I felt it, Sinclair's tears dripping onto my knee one by one and I saw his shoulders begin to shake.

And like I did on the anniversary of his brother's death, I leaned down to press my lips on his exposed cheek and I held him as tightly as I could manage.