I’ve tried for days to get Galen to have a few hours away from the house, but he always finds an excuse.

Mum might need him.

Max might need him.

The lawn needs cutting.

The fence needs painting.

One of the lawn chairs has a wobbly leg.

I resort to underhand tactics.

“Hey, Max,” I say when I walk into the bedroom to see him propped up on pillows with Mum helping him eat some broth. “You’re looking handsome today. I think it’s those new pyjamas. They really bring out the colour in your eyes.”

Max huffs out a laugh and winks at me when Mum gives me a stern look.

“What?” I ask. “They do.”

He knows what my game is—being light-hearted at seemingly inappropriate times.

Galen sits in the chair beside the bed, his gaze on the window and the bright winter sun.

“I was just popping in to take Galen for an ice cream.”

“Ice cream? It’s freezing outside today,” Mum declares, spooning another mouthful of broth for Max.

“I think that sounds like a bloody great idea,” Max says. His eyes flicking from Galen to me. “In fact, bring me home some mint choc chip. I have a craving.”

Oh, he’s better at this than me.

This time I’m the one that gives a sly wink.

“Do you?” Mum asks brightening. “You didn’t say earlier.” Then she turns to me and says, “Bring home a big tub. No, make it two.”

I want to laugh. I bet the last thing Max wants is ice cream, and I think Mum would buy the entire shop if he said he wanted a little of each flavour.

“Gal?” I push. “Are you coming?”

He snaps out of his thoughts and gives me a long look.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Yeah, Fflur. I’ll come for ice cream.”

I lick the top of my coconut gelato filled mallow wafer and stare at the man before me. His eyes are fixed outside, his ice cream sundae before him untouched.

The booth we sit in is directly below an air-conditioning vent, and despite it being winter in Wales, the ice cream parlour is freezing inside no matter the temperature outside. I shiver in my thick wool coat and adjust the scarf around my neck.

Maybe ice cream wasn’t the best idea.

“Your dessert is going to melt,” I say, taking another lick of mine and all but giving myself a full body freeze, let alone brain freeze.

“Huh?” he asks, his head finally turning to face me.

“Your ice cream? It’s your favourite.” I point to the untouched glass dish before him.

“Yeah, I guess,” he says absently, not paying attention to anything I’ve said.

“Gal,” I sigh and place my half-eaten treat on a napkin. “We need to talk.”

“No, we don’t.”

Finally, a reaction.

“I don’t mean about us,” I say, voice lowered, eyes locked on his which means I don’t miss the brief second his gaze lands on my lips and flicks away.

“I can’t, Fflur,” he confesses, voice broken. “I can’t do this with you. I have to think about my dad.”

“We’re not doing anything, Gal. We’re just here being us, taking a timeout. Can’t you talk to me like you used to anymore?”

“No,” he yells, his voice reverberating around the empty store and the girl working behind the counter drops something heavy and metallic, making a loud clatter that doesn’t hurt my ears half as much as Galen’s one word. “No. I can’t talk to you. I can’t let you comfort me because I. Want More. Than. That.” He punctuates each word with a stab of his thumb to his chest before taking a deep and shuddering breath. “I want more, Fflur, and now isn’t the time for us. Now is the time for him, for them. So do me a favour—” he stands, rifles in his pocket for his wallet, and throws down some cash. “—Buy Dad some fucking mint choc chip and go home. Just go home.”

And then he’s gone.

Out into the air a few degrees colder than inside this parlour. Away from me and the warm comfort I’d hoped to provide.

When I arrive home a little over an hour later, the mournful strains of Galen’s guitar can be heard coming from upstairs.

How he got back here, I don’t know.

Mum sits on the stairs listening, her eyes closed, her head lowered.

She snaps her head towards me when I open the door, her eyes quickly blinking as if I’ve woken her from a daydream.

I nod my head towards upstairs. “Has he been home long?”

“Hmm,” she muses softly. “About fifteen minutes maybe.”

“He’s been playing ever since?”

“He has. This same melody over and over.”

“Max’s song.”

“It’s beautiful,” she says. “But it’s not Max.”

I walk to the stairs and sit on the one beneath her, her feet against my thigh.

“No,” I agree as we listen to the sadness that pours from the strings. “It’s not Max. He’s more like a jig or a jive. Lively, almost out of control.”

“I hope he finds that song. I know it won’t be now, but after, I hope he will.”

“We’ll help him,” I promise. “He’ll find it.”

That afternoon, Max’s nurse tells us to prepare for his passing in the next week or so. She said these things can’t be predicted, but that his organs are shutting down and the progression of his illness would speed up and not slow down.

When she leaves, Mum kisses a sleeping Max and lies down with him on their bed, and Galen disappears.

I know I need to call Rhys. He’s been around as much as he can, but with his job at the school he’s been unable to take time off like the rest of us.

“It’s almost time,” I tell him quietly, feeling like I’m confessing the most terrible sin, feeling the burden of this responsibility weighing down on my soul. “If you can be around more often, great, but don’t punish yourself if you can’t.”

“I’ll call in sick,” he says without hesitation.

I busy myself in the kitchen, wondering if anyone has an appetite and if I should I attempt to cook, when Galen comes in through the French doors, boots muddy, jeans wet up to his knees and his hair and shoulders soaked to the bone.

“Where did you go?” I ask, uncaring of the mess he’s making on the floor I just cleaned.

“To the brook.” He leans down and undoes his muddy laces before awkwardly toeing off his black leather boots and then dumping them straight into the rubbish bin.

I watch him with a morbid fascination. His movements staccato and choppy, his gaze purposely avoiding mine.

“Why did you go there in this weather?”

My eyes flick outside at the heavy rain and strong winds. “You must be bloody freezing.”

As if my words are the catalyst to an autonomous response, Galen’s entire body shivers.

“Come here,” I say, grabbing a towel from the laundry room and walking back into the kitchen with it open wide.

He hesitates for just a second before walking towards me.

I begin by drying his hair, then his neck and face, and then I ask him to take off his light jacket and drape another towel over his shoulders.

“What were you doing out there?”

He keeps his eyes on the floor when he confesses, “Looking for flowers. They always seemed to help you, and I needed… I needed something to—”

Without any other thought than this man before me, my family, my love, needs me, I step forward and wrap him tightly in my arms.

He freezes for a single beat of my heart before allowing my touch and falling into my embrace.

“What does my name mean?” I ask quietly, and I feel him still.

“Flower,” he whispers hoarsely into my neck.

“I’ll be all your flowers, Galen. I’m here, and you don’t need to look for any others. Take me. Use me.”

He shudders but doesn’t respond. Eventually, his arms wrap around my waist, and the wetness from his sodden clothes seeps into mine like I’m his sponge.

If only I could absorb some of his pain so easily.

That night, I go up to Mum and Max’s room before I head to bed to check if Mum needs anything.

When I peek my head around the door, I find Max asleep, with Mum lying on one side of him, head tucked into the space between his shoulder and neck, and Galen lying on the other. He’s on his side on top of the sheets, head propped on his outstretched arm. I grab the blanket from the chair and carefully lay it over him before taking one last look at the trio in slumber.

Are they all dreaming?

They all look so peaceful, and I close my eyes tight and take a mental snapshot of the scene.

Max surrounded by nothing but love.

Love and life.