“They went to a fight to watch a mutual friend. I stayed home to pack for a mission trip we were supposed to take the following day.” Her gaze meets mine. Time hasn’t erased the pain. It’s red in her eyes, very much still alive.

“After the fight, there was a dispute. Some guy who Jake fought years earlier wasn’t happy to see him again. He was one of Jake’s opponents who left on a stretcher.” Deedy blows out another breath and returns her gaze to the table and three years earlier.

“Gavin started to argue with the guy. Jake tried to keep things from getting out of hand, so he pushed Gavin back to put himself between them. Gavin tripped on something and fell backward. He hit his head on a concrete ledge of the next level of seating.”

Deedy shakes her head slowly. “No cut. No bump. He didn’t lose consciousness. Got up on his own and dusted himself off like it was no big deal. Seemingly unscathed. Jake suggested he get checked out by a doctor, but Gavin said he’d taken much harder hits to his head when he was a fighter.”

She’s The Deedy. Stealer of my father. Haunter of my Jake fantasies. Yet, I can’t keep my hand from reaching for hers, giving it a gentle squeeze.

Deedy smiles at our hands. “He came home. Showered. I looked at his head, but it looked fine. He was fine. Fine …” Her face contorts into a grimace. “Until he wasn’t. He got this severe headache and felt dizzy. His words were confusing. I called Jake and told him I was going to take Gavin to the hospital. He told me to call 9-1-1.” Her words come out shaky. She clears her throat. “He died later that night. It was an epidural hematoma caused by blunt impact.”

I don’t speak or even move. What’s there to say?

“So…” Deedy pulls her hand from mine and wraps it around her cup of tea “…there you have it. Jake’s endured a wide array of trauma in his life. He carries guilt like an inoperable tumor attached to his conscience. Working with food. Caring for the environment. These things have helped him deal with his suppressed emotions. But he’s not without triggers.”

I laugh through the pain. “I’m clearly a trigger for more than one of his traumatic moments in life. But … that’s over. Doesn’t matter now. However, I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

“Gavin was my first love. I believe Tommy is my last love.”

Tommy. I grin, but I fear it might look like a cringe.

“Sorry. Your dad. Tom? Thomas? What works for you? I don’t like it when you’re uncomfortable with our relationship. I want us to be friends, not just family by marriage.”