Page 15 of Stoney Gazes for Helpful Gorgons

"She was," Rhea agrees. "I miss her. It's like an ache."

"It is."

"It's the same for your mum?"

I nod. "I'll see something I think she'll have loved, or hear a joke she'd have found funny, and it feels as if someone punched me in the gut. It's worse when I think about the things she won't get to see." Tears sting at the corner of my eyes, but I don't do anything to chase them away. Maybe it's just because this is where we met, but I don't mind the idea of Rhea seeing me being so vulnerable. "She won't be there on graduation day."

"I'm sorry." She reaches out and puts her hand on top of mine, the touch more comforting than I expect it to be.

"Thanks." I let out a long sigh. "I'm sure there are other parts of my life I'll want to tell her about and can't too."

She nods and bites her bottom lip. "I'm already feeling like that."

"Because they'll always be gone," I say. "And there will always be things that they'll miss out on."

"It's weird because I always knew I'd lose her at some point, but I guess I just hadn't expected it to be so soon. She was in the picture of health, and wasn't even sixty-five yet." She glances down at her hands.

One of her snakes slithers out of the bun on top of her head, answering my unspoken question of where they're hiding. He curves himself around her neck, almost as if he's giving her a hug. It's really sweet. I've never thought of gorgon snakes as having much agency before, but he clearly cares for Rhea.

I reach out and put a hand on her upper back, rubbing slightly in what I hope is a comforting move and not me overstepping. I don't want to make her uncomfortable.

"It gets easier," I promise, though I'm not completely sure if that's true. There are still days where all I want to do is cry. Normally after I've talked to my dad.

She nods and wipes some tears away. "I guess I know that deep down, but I'm not sure it helps much now."

"Yeah, I know what you mean."

She sighs and leans back in her chair. "This is nothing like I expected it to be."

"It isn't," I agree. "I thought it would be much more consuming."

"Pull the duvet cover over my head kind of intense," she responds.

"Maybe it is for some people. We don't have the monopoly on how to grieve," I point out.

"Even if we're both here?"

"Especially because we're both here." I look around the room. "Everyone here has been to the session more than once, but I've seen a few people turn up and clearly decide that it isn't for them. But the people who do want to pull the duvet over their heads and pretend it isn't happening just aren't here, so we're not seeing them. It doesn't make their grief any less real, it's just different."

"In which case, I guess I surprised myself with how I'm reacting."

I nod. I guess that makes sense, though I don't think I've heard her say anything that suggests she'd have reacted in a different way. On the other hand, what do I know? I'm a nineteen-year-old gargoyle studying law, not some trained psychologist or mind reader.

"Maybe let's change the subject," she says. "Can I just announce we're doing that?"

"You just did," I point out. "Okay, let's see...what are the rules for birthday presents?"

"Oh, no. No presents," she insists. "But you have to bring your own booze."

"I can do that."

"Let's guess, Jack Daniels?"

I laugh. "Absolutely not, my budget doesn't stretch to brand names. And even if it did, I'd be much more basic than that. I tried a Jack and Coke once and nearly spat it out, not my thing."

"Ah, that's a shame. So what's more basic than a Jack and coke?"

"Don't laugh..."