Blake hits the table hard enough that his glass of iced tea tilts and spills everywhere, dripping onto the floor. He stands, pushing the chair out from behind him until it collides with the wall.

“Look, I’m sorry I’m not Dave. I’m sorry he’s the one who died and not me. Trust me—I know you would have preferred that, Dad.”

“That’s not—”

“But I’m here. And you know what? You and Mom are going to have to deal with it. Taking it out on me? Not cool. I’m here. I’m alive. How about focusing on that instead of trying to mold me into your other son?”

Blake storms off before his parents can respond, leaving all three of us dumbstruck. Claire sighs heavily.

“You need to apologize, Greg,” she warns, throwing her napkin down, but not before quickly dabbing at the corners of her mouth. “Now.”

“I’m not going to apologize to him. He should know that he doesn’t get to treat us all like emotional punching bags. He’s not the only one hurting.”

“That’s not the point, and you know it!”

“Then what is the point?”

“He’s our son!”

The argument continues to escalate, and with each rising voice, I feel smaller. Blake’s somewhere upstairs, and I should probably follow him, but I can’t help but feel like there’s a part of this argument that’s my fault.

Since the first time I visited the McIntyres and saw their family dynamics, something has always felt off. It’s like they are all magnets of the same pole, trying to push themselves together when, logically, they never could. And, finally, the force they’ve been exerting on each other backfired and blew them apart.

This argument was the manifestation of anger, pain, and regrets that are all umbrellaed under one word.

Grief.

That’s what all this is. Grief that’s bubbling under the surface. No one here wants to talk about what happened…which I still don’t fully understand. Ignoring the situation won’t solve it, but that’s easy to say as an outsider looking in. Would Dad and I talk if Mom died? Would Mom and I discuss it if Dad got hit by a car on his way home? Would Mom and Dad talk if I suddenly collapsed right now and died before getting to the hospital?

No. Yes. No.

The yelling continues, but I do my best to push it out.

If Blake is right, then all I need to do is think about Michael to transport myself to him. I don’t need to be here; I can be anywhere. So why not take advantage of that?

I conjure up an image of Michael, and I hold on to that thought. His height. His arms. His hair. His smile. How he smells. Him playing music. The Citadel. My process.