When I'd told my dad of Isaac's proposal, he'd responded immediately with two, firmly spoken words that left little room for argument.

"Let's go."

Now, the day before we're scheduled to depart for Hawaii and join Isaac on Maui, we're paying one final visit to my mother's grave.

As I help him straighten from where he'd just set a dozen yellow roses in a sturdy vase beside the memorial stone, my dad lets out a long sigh.

It's not a sad sound, though, and as he looks down at the marker, he smiles.

"Do you want to be alone?" I ask. This could be the last time he ever stands in this spot, after all.

He shakes his head, looping his arm around my shoulders in a half-hug. "No. She's not really here, anyway, you know, and I don't need a stone with her name on it to remember your mom."

We stand there for a while longer anyway. It's midmorning, the day is warm, the leaves of the nearby maples burst with fiery color, and the sky overhead is a dark, autumnal blue.

"She'd have preferred cremation, anyway," he says quietly, staring at the headstone with a slight frown, "but after what happened, her parents insisted on a church burial, and I was in no condition to have an opinion until well after the fact."

He doesn't often talk about my mom's death—how, after years of struggle, she'd lost the fight against the crippling depression that had plagued her after my birth.

I can't imagine what he felt.

He'd lost the love of his life, and he could've dealt with that pain in any number of unhealthy ways; and yet, besides his unfortunate smoking habit, he'd remained a kind, caring father; a hard worker and a loving man. In his place, I don't know if I could have survived it, and yet my dad had stayed strong and been there for his kids.

Which makes Dylan's failings all the more egregious.

He's another thing we haven't spoken of very much.

My dad kept up with the trial though, staying in touch with Dylan's lawyer throughout. Now, Neil is in prison and Dylan has vanished, disappeared within the Witness Protection Program to start a new life, although I suspect he'll be looking over his shoulder for the rest of it.

"I think he blamed me," I say, speaking the thought that's come to nest in my mind over the last several months. "I think he came to hate me because he thought that, if only I'd never been born, he'd still have a mom."

My dad's hand tightens where he grips my upper arm, and he pulls me against him a little tighter for a moment in a one-armed hug.

We both know who I'm talking about.

Dylan would have been too young to fully understand what had happened to our mom when she died, but by the time I was ten and he was entering high school, he'd have understood well enough. And it wasn't that much of a leap to make, after all.

No baby, no postpartum depression...no bottle of pills.

"If he did think that, he's wrong," my dad says now. "Your mother was a beautiful, intelligent, kind woman, but she struggled for a long time—well before either you or Dylan were even a thought. I'm not saying what happened was inevitable, but I am saying that it's absolutely not your fault. I wouldn't trade you for anything, Felix—remember that, okay?"

I nod, and have to look up and blink to keep back the threat of tears.

"As for your brother," he goes on, releasing another, less contented-sounding sigh, "he's chosen his path. I still love him, and he'll always be my son—my little boy—but the man he's become..."

He shakes his head.

I know that, even now, after everything, he still thinks that part of the fault lies with him—that he should have noticed something, should have realized everything wasn't okay. Some people might even agree with him.

Not me. Like Isaac once said, I'm good at hiding pain, and I made sure my dad never once saw anything that suggested something was wrong. I had lots of bad reasons for doing so, but one of them was so that he wouldn't feel exactly what he's feeling now: like he's somehow the one to blame.

"Dad...you did a good job. Do you have any idea how many people like me would give anything to have a father like you?" I ask, unable to keep my voice entirely steady. "I'm not saying you're perfect—nobody is—but Dylan's faults are his own. Not yours."

He squeezes me one more time and then lets me go, a smile on his lips once more as he gazes down at my mother's grave.

"Felix, if there's one thing I'm grateful for, it's that I got to see you find love. I know relationships don't always last, but I have a feeling that you and Isaac... Well, you're 'it' for each other, I think. Don't ever take that for granted, though," he adds. "You plan on holding each other's hand when you're a hundred years old, but you tell him you love him every chance you get."

"I will, Dad," I promise. "I will."

#

A few months later, we're settled into a new life that a year ago would have seemed like an impossible dream.

We rented out our old house to a sweet young couple (my dad couldn't quite bear to part with it outright) and the income we get from the arrangement is enough to cover our half of the place Isaac found.

It's a four-bedroom, two-bath condo set only a short distance from the beach where Isaac will work a few hours a week as a surf instructor.

When he'd initially told me about the job, he'd made it sound like an amazing opportunity—and for him, I understood that it was—but honestly, it paid about as well as an internship and demanded scarcely any of his time.

To make up for it, he puts his other skills to use. As he'd assured me, he can be a hairstylist, a photographer, and/or an EMT anywhere; just like all I need to teach and compose music is a piano and a quiet space.

I'd left my little digital practice keyboard behind, though, Isaac having promised me he'd made arrangements in advance.

The day we'd arrived,  he'd led me inside with his hands over my eyes, making me promise not to peek, and when he finally told me to look, I'd blinked against the sudden bright light flooding through large windows and washing over an enormous black behemoth, which I recognized right away.

"Isaac, is that...Is that Uncle Reg's grand? Jesus..."

He'd nodded, biting his lip in anticipation of my reaction.

I'd been overwhelmed.

I'd tried to imagine what it must have cost to move a piano—a full-sized grand, no less—across an ocean, and...

Isaac had caught the direction of my thoughts and sought to intervene.

"Don't worry—Uncle Reg wouldn't notice if he lost a suitcase full of hundred-dollar bills. This was nothing. He just wanted to send us a housewarming gift, and he remembered how much you'd liked his piano..."

"...Christ," I say, finishing my thought. "And you're his favorite nephew, right?"

He'd laughed, getting my drift. "I'm his only nephew. Don't marry me for my money, though," he'd joked. "Uncle Reg showed us his will when he made it. Isabelle and I will get our share, but most of his money is in a charitable trust. Something about "The Arts" and LGBT youth."

He waves a hand.

I reassess my opinion of Uncle Reg.

#

It's almost spring again when I finish the final piece of my first album of original works for piano. It's being released through a small, digitally based company, but it's a step in the right direction, and I'm proud of what I've made.

I play it through for Isaac, and as usual, by the end of it he's impressed to the point of excess.

So much so that he asks if I'll let him make one of his fantasies come true.

"On the piano bench?" I ask, uncertain.

It's barely big enough to support my upper body. It'd make more sense if he wanted me to bend over it, but he wants me on my back.

"I'll be careful," he insists.

Generally, we share positions fairly evenly—Isaac likes to take as much as he likes to give—but I usually end up on the bottom by the end of the night one way or the other. He has more energy than me, after all.

If my dad wasn't out for the afternoon with his new ukulele group, I'd probably have said no—he's walked in on us enough times already I'm surprised he hasn't gone blind—but I'm feeling good, excited about my music, and so deeply in love I'm willing to look past the odd fantasy or two.

"Alright," I say. "You want me to undress, or...?"

"Actually, I'd like you in your concert tails, but we can save that for another time." He grins, tugging at the waist of my loose pants.

The piano bench proves, as I'd suspected, too small, and I end up next to it on the floor, arms above my head, legs around his back while he fucks me with slow, deliberate intent.

I can tell he's holding himself back with an effort, sweat beading on his brow, biting his lip as he makes sure he hits the sensitive spot inside me with each thrust, lighting my body with a wealth of sensation that leaves no room for my over-active mind.

Finally, when I'm at my limit, the floor warm with friction beneath my back, I decide to send him over the edge.

"I love you," I whisper, meeting his eyes.

He loses it, and a moment later we lie in a satisfied heap, him collapsed over me, our bodies still joined.

After a moment, he lifts himself on his elbows, looking down at me, face flushed with fading passion.

I'm used to his unfiltered style by now, but he still takes me by surprise.

"Felix, will you marry me?" he asks.

If he were anyone else in this situation, I'd think he was joking, and I'd either laugh or think he didn't take me seriously.

Not Isaac.

I can tell, in the sea-storm gray of his eyes, in the rawness of his voice, that he's presenting me with bare-souled sincerity right now.

Awkward, and a little weird, but undeniably honest and sweet.

I owe it to him to be so honest in return.

"Yes, Isaac Mason," I say, smiling up at him from where I lie on the floor. "Yes, I will marry you."

♫♪The End♫♪

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A/N: This story turned out so different than I thought it would 😅. It was supposed to be a funny, light comedy... Oh well 😁🎶💕.Next time, maybe😊. Thanks for reading! ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

And if you happen to have enjoyed, check out my other books!   😉💕