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This morning begins like any other. Bradley wakes early, wrapped around Jake. For a moment, he just lies there, watching Jake breathe, smiling faintly as he admires the curve of his eyelashes. Then, carefully, he slips free, pressing a soft kiss to Jake’s forehead before tugging the duvet higher over his shoulders.
Fleetwood is curled at the foot of the bed, and Bradley bends to rub her head before straightening and scanning for their other baby. Pickles is sprawled belly-up near the cat tree, snoring softly. Bradley shakes his head with a huff of amusement, pulls on a pair of sweats, and heads downstairs. He grabs the crewneck hung on the coat rack, pulls it over his head, slides into his shoes set neatly by the door, and heads out for a quiet morning walk.
Back home an hour later, the coffee pot hisses to life while Bradley sets about making pancakes. He stirs the batter, ladles it into the pan, watches the circles spread. Once the stack is done, he washes blackberries and raspberries, sets the table, and checks the clock above the kitchen sink. Almost nine a.m. Jake should be up soon.
Bradley unplugs his iPad from the charger on their kitchen island, and settles into his usual seat, coffee in hand, a raspberry—Jake’s favorite—between his teeth. He'll skim the news until Jake wanders down, still rumpled from sleep.
The screen flickers to life. The New York Times app opens. And there it is, at the top of the page:
Thursday, December 2, 2021.
Bradley blinks. Then again.
“Shit.”
The word scrapes out of him. His chest feels like it’s been hollowed out. Twenty-four years ago to the day, his mom lost her fight with cancer.
For a moment, he’s back there—thirteen years old, sitting beside her hospital bed. The room had smelled faintly of antiseptic and the orange lotion she loved, the kind he still can’t bring himself to buy. Machines hummed an indifferent rhythm. Her hand was small and cool in his, her wedding ring loose around her finger. Upstairs, in a little box tucked into his nightstand, he still has those rings. Hers stacked inside his father’s, both of them too worn and too precious to touch.
Bradley sets the iPad down too hard, the mug of coffee beside it rattling against the table. He drops his head into his hands. His stomach twists with guilt. He feels horrible—what kind of son forgets the day his mother died? The thought claws at him. His mom gave him everything, and now he can’t even remember her death until he’s faced with a reminder in print.
He’s still hunched over when he hears the faint rustle of sheets upstairs, then the familiar tread of Jake’s feet on the stairs. Two softer sets of footsteps follow—Jake’s protectors, Fleetwood and Pickles, padding dutifully behind.
Bradley glances over his shoulder. Jake appears in the doorway, hair mussed, smile sleepy but wide. “Hey,” he says, voice warm with morning. “Is there coffee ready?”
Bradley nods toward the mug he’d already fixed, waiting at Jake’s usual spot. Jake’s grin deepens when he notices the spread on the table, but then he freezes, reading the look etched into Bradley’s face.
“What’s wrong?”
Bradley swallows, shaking his head. “I just forgot the date, is all.”
Jake’s brow furrows. “What’s the date?”
“December second.”
Recognition flickers, and Jake’s eyes soften instantly. He crosses the room without hesitation and pulls Bradley’s face against his stomach, standing over him, one hand curling into his hair. “Oh, honey.”
Bradley clutches at him, arms wrapping tight around his back, pressing his face into the fabric of Jake’s t-shirt and holding on like he might come apart without him. How lucky is he to have a husband who knows him so well, when he can’t even remember the date of his own mother’s death.
Jake holds him close, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other rubbing slow, soothing circles across his shoulder. After a few minutes, his voice comes low and steady. “Let’s get some food into you, and then we can go cuddle on the couch. How about that?”
Bradley nods into Jake’s stomach, hanging on a moment longer before finally sighing and letting go. Jake brushes his fingers through Bradley’s hair once more, then moves to sit in his usual spot at the table. Bradley turns back to the pancakes, now a little cold, but he couldn’t care less.
Jake serves him a plate with pancakes and fruit, sliding it in front of him before passing the syrup. Bradley pours some over the stack, then sets the bottle by Jake’s elbow. They eat mostly in silence, the quiet steadying in its own way. And then—miraculously—Jake stands and clears the dishes. Bradley watches him at the sink for a beat, knowing Jake must really be worried if he’s voluntarily doing the dishes. Still, Bradley isn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
He drifts into the living room, flops onto his back across the sectional, and lets himself sink into the cushions. From there he listens to Jake moving around the kitchen, the clink of plates and splash of water. When the footsteps finally draw nearer, Bradley cracks his eyes open to see Jake standing above him.
“Scootch your head up,” Jake says gently.
Bradley obeys, shifting until Jake can sit and his head rests comfortably in Jake’s lap. He closes his eyes again, exhaling slow when Jake’s fingers find his curls, stroking through them with a touch that feels like home.
They stay like that for a long while, the steady rhythm of Jake’s fingers lulling Bradley into a fragile calm. Until a single tear slips from the corner of his closed eye. His voice comes out small, almost broken.
“I’m older than her now. Older than she ever got to be.”
Jake inhales sharply. His hand stills just long enough to brush the tear from Bradley’s cheek, then resumes its gentle path through his curls. “Will you tell me something about her?”
Bradley’s chest tightens. What a gift of a question, he thinks. He lets out a shaky breath. “She loved puzzles.” A soft huff of laughter escapes him. “There was never anywhere to eat because she had them spread over every table. She was patient with me about it, though. Said it didn’t matter if it took me forever to find a piece or if I got frustrated. Having someone to sit with, to figure it out together—that was the fun part. That the picture at the end was just a bonus. She was always looking for new ones in gift shops and bookstores.”
Jake hums quietly, encouraging.
“I remember saving up to get a nice one for her birthday when I was thirteen. She was in the hospital pretty much full time by then, but we did it together on her bed. I think it was from Yosemite—Mav took me that summer—so it was probably one of the park.” Bradley’s lips curve faintly, the memory sharp but warm. “She was so happy.”
Jake presses his palm a little firmer against Bradley’s head, his voice low. “I bet she was, honey. That was really sweet of you.”
Bradley opens his eyes and blinks up at Jake, vision blurring with the weight of it all. He loves this man so much it hurts. His voice cracks as he whispers, “She would’ve loved you, I think. I wish you could’ve known her. She was the best mom. She never made me feel like I was missing out on not having a dad. God, I just—I just wish she could’ve known you too.”
Jake looks down at him, trying for a smile. Bradley can see the effort—it wavers at the edges, because Jake always feels his pain right along with him. Bradley knows how hard he’s working to keep it together for his sake.
“I would’ve loved her too,” Jake says softly, brushing his thumb across Bradley’s temple. “She made you, after all.”
Bradley shifts onto his side, pressing his face into Jake’s thigh like he can hide there. His voice comes out muffled. “Is it bad I forgot how much I miss her?”
Jake’s hand never stills in his hair. “No, honey. It’s not bad at all. I know it’s not the same because he’s still alive, but… I’ll go months without thinking about my dad, and then all of the sudden I’ll miss him.” He lets out a low breath. “Well—maybe not him exactly, since he’s a homophobic asshole. But the idea of him. Of having a dad who loves me in my life.”
Bradley’s chest tightens. Jake twists his fingers gently through his curls before continuing. “From everything I’ve heard about your mom, she wouldn’t want you spending your whole life stuck in the grief. She’d want you to live, baby. And that’s what you’re doing.”
Bradley sniffles against his leg, nodding. “Yeah, I guess. It’s just… I’ve spent almost two-thirds of my life without her at this point. It feels like it should hurt less.”
Jake’s voice is soft but steady. “I don’t think that’s how grief works, B.” He pauses, thumb brushing along Bradley’s temple before he adds, “It’ll be twenty-five years next year, right? What if we take a trip to Tennessee, visit your parent’s graves together?”
The suggestion makes Bradley’s throat close—caught somewhere between wanting to sob and to cover Jake’s faces with kisses for suggesting such an idea. Instead, he presses tighter against him and whispers, “Yeah, I’d like that.”
“Well, then we’ll make it happen,” Jake says, decisive but gentle. “We can plan it and put in a leave request soon.”
Bradley nods into Jake's leg, not much in the mood for talking anymore.
Jake strokes his hair again. “You know I’m supposed to take Pickles for his physical today,” he says softly. “But I can call and reschedule if you want me to stay home with you. Wouldn’t be too hard to get him another appointment.”
Bradley shakes his head faintly. “No, it’s okay. You should go. I’ll be fine.”
“Only if you’re sure.”
“I am. Promise.”
Jake hesitates, then nods. Carefully, he lifts Bradley’s head up so he can slip out from under him. He leans down, brushing the lightest kiss across Bradley’s lips. “I’m gonna go get dressed.”
Bradley just nods, mute.
A few minutes later, Jake comes downstairs, cat carrier in one hand. He coaxes Pickles inside with treats and a sweet, coaxing voice, ignoring the indignant mews once the latch clicks shut. Fleetwood watches it all from her concrete perch on the floor, unimpressed with how easily her little brother was fooled.
Setting the carrier by the door, Jake crosses back to Bradley with his phone and a water bottle. “You’ve got a text from Mav,” he says, handing over the phone before placing the water bottle on the coffee table. A glance at his watch. “It’s almost ten-thirty. I should be home before three. Want me to bring some dinner?”
Bradley has been watching him the whole time, his chest aching with love and grief tangled together. “Sure,” he says quietly. “Whatever you want.”
“Okay, honey.” Jake bends to give him a slow, lingering kiss. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Bradley murmurs.
Jake slips on his trainers, scoops up the carrier with a mewling Pickles inside, and heads out the door.
The house falls quiet. Bradley unlocks his phone.
1 New Message — Pete “Maverick” Mitchell
Maverick: Hey kiddo, thinking about you today. Ice is in DC right now, but call us if you need anything. Love you, Baby Goose.
Bradley nearly starts crying right there on the couch.
Bradley hasn’t moved from his spot on the couch when Jake opens the door a little after fourteen hundred, cat carrier in one hand, folder of paperwork in the other. He sets the carrier down, unlatches it, and Pickles darts out, skittering to hide behind the armchair in the corner. Jake shakes his head at the cat’s dramatics, drops the folder on the kitchen island, and props the empty carrier by the door.
“Hey, baby,” he says, voice soft. “Just gotta grab the food from the truck. Be right back.”
Bradley only nods. He watches Jake disappear outside and waits, chest tight, until he returns with two different size bags.
“Got Thai,” Jake announces, already heading to the fridge. “We can save it for later.” He tucks the smaller bag away in the fridge, then carries the second over to the couch where Bradley is still sprawled.
He taps Bradley’s leg. “Okay, time to sit up, babe.”
Bradley groans but obeys, shifting upright. Jake settles beside him and pulls a large box from the bag, settling it on the coffee table.
Bradley’s breath stutters. On the cover is a thousand piece puzzle of the Coronado Bridge, the blue arc of it glowing against a watercolor sunset. Tears prick hot and fast.
Jake shifts, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “I thought we could do one together. For your mom.”
The tears spill and Bradley folds, sobbing against Jake’s chest. Jake’s eyes go wide and he panics, pulling him closer. “Oh shit—I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to make it worse—”
Bradley shakes his head, words muffled against him. “You didn’t.”
“What, B? I couldn’t hear you.”
Bradley pushes back just enough to look his husband in the eye, tears streaming unchecked. “Thank you.”
Jake cups his face, thumbs gentle as they sweep the tears away. “Yeah? You wanna do it with me?”
Bradley sniffles, trying to swallow down the sobs. “Yeah.”
Jake kisses his forehead and lets him go, reaching for the box. Together, they peel back the plastic wrap and open it, the rattle of a thousand cardboard pieces spilling between them. Bradley stares down at the jumble, vision still blurred, but his chest feels a little lighter.
Grief is a strange thing. Bradley knows it’ll likely never really leave him. It shifts, it hides, it even softens at the edges, but it always finds its way back. And maybe that’s what keeps her here—because in the remembering, however much it hurts, Carole Bradshaw lives on.
He fits two border pieces in place, feels Jake’s shoulder warm against his, and lets himself breathe. He lost so much when he lost his mom. But looking at the man beside him, he knows he’s been given so much too.