Damaged Petals.

[Soapy]

Season 5, Episode 8
"He got pretty quiet once he got older but man, when he was a kid, he wouldn’t shut the fuck up."

A ripple of gentle laughter moved through the room.

"I think a lot about which version of him I liked the most," Brice continued, staring at the carpet's intricate pattern rather than meeting anyone's eyes. "And the versions of him I never got to meet."

The overhead AC vent had a low hum, filling the silence as Brice swallowed hard. His mouth felt dry. The coffee he'd grabbed from the table by the door sat cooling between his feet, untouched.

"Anyway," he shrugged, the familiar urge to retreat washing over him. "That's all I've got today."

"Thank you for sharing that, Brice." Elaine, the group facilitator, leaned forward slightly in her chair. "The moments we didn’t get to experience can be especially difficult."

Brice nodded, not trusting himself to speak again. It had been weeks of these meetings, and he still felt the same crawling discomfort whenever attention focused on him, a strange feeling for him.

"Would anyone like to respond to what Brice shared?" Elaine asked, looking around the circle.

Carlos, who was a grad student and the oldest of the group besides Elaine, cleared his throat. "My wife used to sing when we were younger, beautiful voice, I always thought she would get famous from it. Life happened and you know, she stopped singing but right before she died, she was thinking about going back to it, you know, joining the choir or something."

Brice listened as others shared similar experiences, each story threading into the next. He'd learned their losses over the weeks, cancer, car accidents, suicides, heart attacks. Different paths that all led to the same place: this room, these chairs, this shared emptiness.

His gaze drifted across the circle to where Mel sat, her braids pulled back in that loose ponytail he liked. She was watching him, her expression thoughtful. When their eyes met, she gave a small nod, not pity, not sympathy, but something else. Recognition. Maybe even approval.

"Before we wrap up," Elaine said, glancing at her watch, "I wanted to remind everyone about the memorial walk next Saturday. It's completely optional, of course, but many find it helpful to participate in these community events."

Brice shifted in his seat, already planning his excuse. He'd done enough by showing up week after week, well past the three meetings that LaPenna had asked for. A memorial walk was a bridge too far.

"I'm going," Mel announced, her voice carrying across the circle.

Her eyes found Brice's again She'd been doing that since their first real conversation at the bar, pushing him without pushing, seeing through his bullshit with an accuracy that was both irritating and strangely comforting.

"Great, Mel," Elaine smiled. "Anyone else I can expect?"

…

Nia dragged the pencil across her notebook, avoiding the math homework she had told herself she would finish. The detention room was eerily quiet, each second stretching into eternity. Sister Catherine sat at the front desk, glasses perched on the end of her nose as she graded papers, occasionally glancing up to ensure her charges remained silent.

Three other students occupied the room: a freshman boy who'd been caught with a vape, a junior who'd mouthed off to Father Teller, and a senior girl whose uniform skirt had been rolled up one too many times. None of them acknowledged each other.

Nia's phone vibrated in her pocket. She slid it out just enough to glimpse the screen. She glanced up at Sister Catherine, who remained absorbed in her grading. Quickly, Nia typed back a single letter.

The clock crawled forward. Nia added more elaborate swirls to her doodle, which had morphed into something resembling the fish ladder by the park.

"Your time is up," Sister Catherine announced precisely at 4:30. "I trust we won't be seeing any of you in here again."

Nia gathered her things without meeting the nun's eyes. She knew the disappointment she'd find there, the same look she'd been getting from teachers in the last few months.

The park was only a ten-minute walk. Nia cut across the baseball field, her school shoes collecting dew from the grass. In the distance, she could already hear laughter and the faint bass line of music being played way too loud from a shitty portable speaker.

They were gathered at their usual spot, a cluster of picnic tables partially hidden from the main path by a stand of oak trees. Brian spotted her first, raising his hand in greeting without interrupting his conversation.

"Our majesty graces us with her presence," Zack called out, raising a lidded coffee tumbler that was most definitely not filled with coffee.

"Fuck off," Nia replied, although a smile escaped her lips.

Brian shifted on the bench, making room for her between himself and Amber. Nia slid into the space, accepting the opened drink Brian handed her without question. She often wondered if Brian had told Amber about that day in the park.

"How was your bid?" he asked, his arm settling around her shoulders.

"Boring as shit," Nia took a long sip, the cheap beer bitter on her tongue.

"Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time," Brian's other arm was draped around Amber, who was scrolling through her phone, seemingly unbothered by the arrangement.

The group laughed, and Nia fell back into that comfort she had grown to around them. These people didn't expect her to be okay. They didn't ask about her feelings or offer empty platitudes about time healing all wounds. They just let her be.

"We're thinking about heading up to the dunes this weekend," Brian said. "You rolling with us?"

The dune was at least an hour away. They’re probably be staying overnight. Six months ago, Nia would have immediately said no, knowing her parents would never let her go and she’d have to sneak out. Six months ago, Jimmy was still alive.

"Yeah," she said, taking another sip. "I'm in."

…

Tom looked up from the sink, his hands still immersed in soapy water, a pan crusted with the remains of tonight's lasagna soaking beside him. He hadn't expected her tonight. He kept scrubbing at a stubborn spot on the glass baking dish. He heard her heels click across the hardwood floor, then pause at the kitchen entrance.

"Oh," Liz said, setting her laptop bag on the counter. "I didn't think anyone would be up."

Tom rinsed the dish and placed it in the drying rack.

Liz slipped off her blazer and draping it over a kitchen chair. Her blouse was wrinkled from a day of meetings, her hair falling loose from what had probably been a neat bun that morning.

"What's for dinner?" she asked, opening the refrigerator and peering inside.

Tom snorted, unable to contain the bitter sound. "Dinner was three hours ago."

"Oh," Liz continued scanning the refrigerator shelves.

"There's some chicken from Tuesday in the blue container," Tom added, his tone flat. "Missed that one too."

Liz's shoulders stiffened. She closed the refrigerator without taking anything out and turned to face him. "Is that supposed to mean something?"

"I don't know, Liz. Does it?" Tom dried his hands on a dish towel with deliberate care.

"I've been working," Liz said, her voice tight. "Some of us don't have the luxury of a ten minute commute."

"Is that the luxury that I have?" Tom tossed the towel onto the counter. "Some fucking luxurious I’m living, ain’t I?"

"That's not what I—"

"No, please, tell me how I’ve been living the high fucking life. The only one still taking care of this fucking family? No, tell me, when’s the last time you fucking saw Sophie before she went to school? Or was there when she came home? Fucking held her while she cried?"

Liz crossed her arms. "Don't do that. Don't act like you've been fully present just because you've been physically here."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means sitting in front of the TV with a glass of whiskey isn't parenting, Tom. It's just fucking being there."

Tom took a step toward her. "At least I'm here. At least I'm trying."

"And I'm not?" Liz's eyes flashed. "You think I want to be at the office until midnight?"

"Yeah, I think you do," Tom said, "You can never fucking face reality."

"That's rich coming from you," Liz shot back. "When’s the last time you’ve gone to sleep without whiskey on your breath? When’s the last time you’ve walked into his room without being a stumbling, fucking pathetic drunk?"

The kitchen fell silent as those words hung in the air, avoiding each other’s gaze. The sound of soft footsteps on the stairs broke the tension. Sophie appeared in the doorway, barefoot in pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt.

"Oh, hey Mom," she said, her voice deliberately casual. "Didn't know you got home."

Liz forced a smile. "Just got in. Woke you up?"

"No, just thirsty," Sophie moved to the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of water.

She unscrewed the cap and took a long drink, still watching them both. She hesitated for a moment, as if debating whether to say more, then turned and padded back up the stairs.

"Well, I'm going back to bed. Night, Mom. Night, Dad."

Liz waited until she heard her bedroom door close before she spoke again.

"Tom, I—"

"Not tonight," he cut her off gently. "Let's just... not tonight."

He moved past her, careful not to touch her as he exited the kitchen. The stairs creaked under his weight as he climbed them, each step feeling heavier than the last. Behind him, he heard the refrigerator open again, then close, followed by the microwave's electronic beep. The sounds of his wife preparing to eat alone, in a kitchen that used to be filled with laughter and conversation and the constant chaos of three children.

Tom paused outside Sophie's door, listening. No sound came from within, but he knew she wasn't asleep. He continued to the master bedroom, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The bed was neatly made, untouched since morning. Tom sat on the edge of it, not bothering to turn on the light. In the darkness, he could admit that Liz was right. He hadn't said Jimmy's name in weeks. Hadn't looked at the photos on the mantel. Hadn't visited the grave since the funeral.

Maybe they were both hiding, just in different ways.

[Caesar]

Mel falling for a Yakubian miscreant is crazy. Another sister lost in the sauce.

Nia. Shame. Ain’t got nobody to look out for her and falling in with these seemingly 38 year old hoodlums.

Sophie just need to become an emancipated youth at this point because being homeless would be an upgrade over living with Tom and Liz.

[djp73]

surprising that Brice is following through with the support group

[Captain Canada]

This off-season has been a display of every single character and their sheer incapability to deal with grief. Great choice, lowkey.

[redsox907]

"Great, Mel," Elaine smiled. "Anyone else I can expect?"

Brice using his dead brother to finally knock down Mel is a diabolical on so many levels

Nia gonna get conned into a threesome for her first time

sophie gonna talk about her parents like strangers when Tom finally eats a gun and Liz disappears

[Soapy]

Mel falling for a Yakubian miscreant is crazy. Another sister lost in the sauce.

Nia. Shame. Ain’t got nobody to look out for her and falling in with these seemingly 38 year old hoodlums.

Sophie just need to become an emancipated youth at this point because being homeless would be an upgrade over living with Tom and Liz.

Brian is creepy enough as a 19-year old lmao

surprising that Brice is following through with the support group

This off-season has been a display of every single character and their sheer incapability to deal with grief. Great choice, lowkey.

thank you brudda

"Great, Mel," Elaine smiled. "Anyone else I can expect?"

Brice using his dead brother to finally knock down Mel is a diabolical on so many levels

Nia gonna get conned into a threesome for her first time

sophie gonna talk about her parents like strangers when Tom finally eats a gun and Liz disappears

yall on sophie's ass lmaooo

[Soapy]

Season 5, Episode 9
Liz's hands moved on autopilot, the knife sliding through bread, cheese, and meat. The kitchen countertop held a neat assembly line: wheat bread fanned out in pairs, mustard spread on one side, mayonnaise on the other, turkey and ham and cheese stacked.

She counted as she worked. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Five sandwiches, cut diagonally and wrapped in wax paper the way she'd done every Saturday morning for years.

Liz stared at the completed row, her movements suddenly arrested mid-reach for the plastic bags. The silence of the house pressed in around her. Upstairs, Tom and Sophie still slept, their bedroom doors closed against the morning. No thundering footsteps of teenage boys racing for the kitchen. No bickering over who got the last of the orange juice.

Her throat tightened. The knife slipped from her fingers, clattering against the counter. Too many sandwiches.

Liz gripped the edge of the counter, her knuckles whitening as the wave of grief crashed through her defenses. She'd been doing so well lately, or at least she'd convinced herself she had. And then a stupid mistake, an old habit her body remembered even when her mind tried to forget, threatened to undo it all.

She forced herself to breathe, counting each inhale. One. Two. Three. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

The moment passed, leaving her hollow but upright. Liz straightened, brushing crumbs from her hands as she wrapped three of the sandwiches and placed them in the refrigerator. The other two she returned to their components. Bread back in the bag, meat and cheese in their containers, condiments capped and shelved.

No time to dwell. No space for this now.

Liz wiped down the counter, folded the dish towel into a rectangle, and hung it on the oven door handle. She grabbed her purse from the hook by the pantry and fished out her car keys.

She texted the family group chat. Population still five.

"Heading to the grocery store, text me if you need anything from there. Sandwiches in fridge."

…

The place was packed, as it always was after scrimmages, players and students crowding around the sticky tables.

"Yo, we got a spot in the back," Abdul called, waving from a corner booth where he sat with Corey and Shane.

Brice threaded his way through the crowd, nodding at familiar faces, fist-bumping a few teammates. His legs ached from the day's practice, but the good kind that you didn’t mind.

"The golden boy arrives," Shane grinned as Brice slid into the booth beside him. "You sure this establishment is good enough for your palate?"

"This is premium shit right here," Brice gestured to the half-eaten pizza on the table.

The waitress swung by, notepad in hand. "Another round?"

"Fuck yeah," Brice nodded. "Meat lovers and that buffalo chicken one. Extra crispy."

As she walked away, Brice spotted Justin heading their way.

"Look who it is," Shane muttered. "Mr. Transfer Portal."

"The man's got a moving company on speed dial," Corey added, just loud enough for Justin to hear as he approached.

Justin flipped them off good-naturedly. "At least I get to see the country, unlike you local motherfuckers that ain’t never been nowhere."

"Colorado State to Louisville to Purdue," Abdul counted off on his fingers. "That's like the world tour of mediocre football, my nigga."

"Nowhere I’m at is mediocre," Brice protested.

Justin slid into the booth next to Abdul, stealing a slice from their plate. "Not everyone gets that Colton money, nigga. Some of us gotta chase the bag wherever it takes us."

"You ain’t fucking lied," Abdul quickly switched sides, "This motherfucker not even looking at apartments’ anymore. On my momma, this nigga sent me a fucking three bedroom the other day."

"Man needs multiple bedrooms for all his extracurricular activities," Shane smirked.

Brice shook his head, fighting a smile. "It's an investment. My pops said—"

"Your pops," Abdul mimicked. "Listen to this man. 'My pops says real estate is the foundation of wealth building.'"

"Sounds like a great spot for some kickbacks," Justin said, reaching for another slice. "Ain’t nothing else to do around this motherfucker."

"You’re from Merrillville," Shane nodded. "This is fucking Los Angeles compared to that shit hole."

"All y’all from shitty towns," Abdul butted in, "What we need to focus on is making sure this motherfucker right here don’t move out the projects and leaves us behind."

"You're all invited to this hypothetical house," Brice said magnanimously. "Even you, Justin. The portal closed so you can’t go anywhere."

The door swung open again, and a group of defensive backs filed in, laughing about something. Kendall was at the center, suddenly a penciled in starter with graduations and transfers.

Without hesitation, Brice raised his hand. "Yo, Kendall!"

A moment of surprise crossed Kendall's face before he nodded, gesturing to his crew. They made their way over, pulling up chairs and crowding around the booth.

"Offense looked decent today," Kendall said as they exchanged a dap, his grip firm, his eyes direct, "When I wasn’t out there,"

"Y’all boys alright," Brice smiled, "You know Shane just be giving that motherfucker out."

"He don’t know what he doing!" Kendall teased, mimicking the popular dance move.

The waitress returned with two pizza pies. "Um, should I start a new tab for..."

"Nah, it's all on his tab," Abdul pointed at Brice, drawing laughs from around the table.

"Yeah, put it all on Colton," Justin agreed.

Brice's phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen. He silenced it and slid the phone back into his pocket.

"We need another round of these, too," Brice told the waitress, pointing to the pizzas as conversation flowed around him. "And some of those garlic knots."

…

Liz pushed her cart down the cereal aisle, scanning the shelves without really seeing them as her mind drifted between what to make for dinner and the mountain of paperwork waiting for her at the office on Monday. She reached for a box of Honey Nut Cheerios, Jimmy's favorite, when a familiar voice cut through the Saturday morning bustle.

"Liz?"

She turned to find Mark Daniels standing there, a shopping basket dangling from his arm. Same strong jawline, same tailored button-down that somehow made even casual Saturday shopping look deliberate. The years had been kind to him, a touch of gray at the temples only added to the effect.

"Mark," she smiled, "It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. I thought you were in Indy now."

"Must be almost eight years now," he returned a smile, "Moved back about a year ago."

Liz nodded, suddenly aware of her undone hair, the worn sweatshirt she'd thrown on without thinking. "Back at the DA’s office?"

"Private now, actually."

"Congratulations," Liz said, thinking back to the years they’d spent together working, convinced he and Britney were sneaking off together. The irony wasn't lost on her that it had been Tom who ended up in Britney's bed while Liz had been busy suspecting everyone else.

"How's the family?" Mark asked, shifting his basket to his other arm. "Tom still running the trucking company?"

"He is," Liz's fingers tightened on her shopping cart handle. "Sophie's in high school now. Brice is at Purdue."

She didn't mention Jimmy. Couldn't bring herself to form the words that would turn a grocery store aisle into yet another place where she'd have to accept condolences.

Mark nodded, his eyes warm. "Yeah, I saw the Notre Dame. All grown up."

"Yeah, he is," Liz replied.

An awkward silence fell between them. Mark cleared his throat. "Well, I should let you get back to your shopping. It was really good seeing you, Liz."

"You too," she said, meaning it more than she expected to.

…

"You look recharged," Dr. LaPenna observed, leaning back in his chair.

Brice ran a hand through his hair, "Did I look like shit before?"

"The bags under your eyes aren't quite as designer as they were a month ago," LaPenna added with a small smile.

"Thanks for noticing," Brice said dryly. "Should I be flattered you're checking me out?"

LaPenna ignored the deflection. "I wanted to thank you for sticking with the grief group. Elaine mentioned you've been a regular."

Brice shrugged, his gaze drifting to the window where rain streaked the glass in thin rivulets. "Yeah, I guess. It’s cool."

"It's not 'cool,' Brice. It's progress. Three months ago, you wouldn't even consider walking through that door."

"You asked me to try it," Brice muttered. "So I tried it."

"And?"

"And what?"

LaPenna leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "And how has it been for you? Any insights? Connections?"

Brice shifted in his seat, the leather squeaking beneath him. "Some of the people there are cool. Mel's cool."

"Again. Cool?"

"What do you want me to say? That I'm having these big emotional breakthroughs every week? That I'm suddenly okay with everything?" Brice's voice had an edge to it.

"No," LaPenna said quietly. "I just want you to speak openly. However you’re feeling, just express it."

Brice looked down at his hands, at the calluses on his palms from countless hours of lifting. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft patter of rain against the window.

"I keep thinking about it if you really want to know," Brice finally said, so quietly LaPenna had to lean closer to hear. "About how it happened."

"His death?"

Brice nodded, his throat suddenly tight. "I don't know what his last moments were like."

"That bothers you," LaPenna said. It wasn't a question.

"I keep wondering if he was scared," Brice continued. "If he knew what was happening. If he was in pain. If he was calling for me or for Mom or Dad."

"Those are natural questions to have, Brice."

"Are they?" Brice looked up, his eyes burning. "Because they feel fucking useless. They feel like something I shouldn't be thinking about."

"Why not?"

"Because it doesn't matter now, does it? He's gone. Knowing if he was scared isn't going to bring him back."

LaPenna was quiet for a moment, considering. "It might not bring him back, but it matters to you. That's enough."

Brice leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "Sometimes I think about what happens after. You know, when we die."

"What do you think happens?"

"I don't know," Brice admitted. "My mom always took us to church, but I never really bought into all of it. Heaven, hell, all that shit."

"And now?"

"Now I think about it all the time," Brice's voice cracked slightly. "Is Jimmy just... gone? Or is he somewhere? Does he know I'm thinking about him? Can he see me fucking up? Does he see me doing good? Does he even fucking care at this point?"

LaPenna nodded slowly. "That's a question humans have been trying to answer since the beginning of time."

"What do you believe?" Brice asked suddenly, catching LaPenna off guard.

LaPenna hesitated. This wasn't typical therapeutic territory, but a lot of their other interactions weren’t either.

"I believe that energy doesn't disappear," he said carefully. "It changes form. The physical body ends, but something continues."

"That's some vague spiritual bullshit," Brice sucked his teeth.

"Maybe," LaPenna acknowledged with a small smile. "But I've seen too much in this job to believe we're just meat and electricity."

"Like what?"

"Like people who've never met somehow knowing intimate details about each other's lost loved ones. Like the mother who wakes up at exactly the moment her son dies thousands of miles away. Like the peace that sometimes comes over people in their final moments, even when they've been in terrible pain."

Brice absorbed this, his brow furrowed in thought. "So you think Jimmy's... somewhere?"

"I think Jimmy's energy continues. I think the love between you two continues. Does that mean he's sitting on a cloud watching over you? I don't know. But I don't think the connection you shared just vanishes because his physical form did."

"My mom would say he's with God," Brice said softly.

"And that brings her comfort. That's valuable."

"What about you? Does believing in... energy or whatever... does that bring you comfort?"

LaPenna considered the question. "Yes. It reminds me that nothing is truly final. That connections remain, even when they change form."

"I want to believe that," Brice admitted. "That he's not just gone. That he's not scared or alone."

"What makes the most sense to you? Not what your mom believes or what I believe. What feels true to you?"

Brice was quiet for a long moment, the rain outside growing heavier, drumming against the window. "I think... I think he's still around somehow. I feel him sometimes, when I'm playing. Like he's right there with me or watching me."

"And does that feel real to you? Or like wishful thinking?"

"It feels real," Brice said, surprising himself with the certainty in his voice. "As real as you sitting there or me being here."

LaPenna nodded, a gentle smile on his face. "Then maybe that's your answer."

"Maybe," Brice conceded. He looked out at the rain again, watching it streak down the glass. "You know what's fucked up? I'm more afraid of dying now than I ever was before."

"How so?"

"Before, it was this abstract thing. Something that happens to old people or in movies. Now it's real. It could happen anytime, to anyone. To me. To you"

"That awareness can be terrifying," LaPenna agreed. "But it can also be clarifying. It can help you focus on what matters."

"Yeah, well, right now it just makes me not want to get out of bed some mornings," Brice admitted.

"That's also natural. The pendulum swings between fear and appreciation, between wanting to hide and wanting to live fully. Eventually, it finds a middle ground."

Brice thought about this, about the nights he'd spent staring at the ceiling, paralyzed by the thought that it could all end in an instant.

"How long does it take?" he asked. "To find that middle ground?"

"There's no timeline for grief, Brice. No checklist or roadmap. But you're doing the work. You're showing up here, at the group. That matters."

Brice nodded slowly. "I guess."

"Our time's almost up," LaPenna said, glancing at the clock. "But I want you to know I'm proud of the progress you're making."

"Don't get all sappy on me, Doc," Brice said, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips.

"Heaven forbid," LaPenna replied dryly. "Same time next week?"

"Yeah," Brice said, rising from his chair. "Same time next week."

[Captain Canada]

Is that ... a breakthrough?

[redsox907]

She counted as she worked. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

"You too," she said, meaning it more than she expected to.

gonna have an open marriage where they both fuck old flames lmao

[Caesar]

Brice still a piece of shit.

Liz about to go get the dust knocked off that pussy.

All seriousness aside, scraping condiments off bread and returning the bread to the bag is the most diabolical shit I’ve ever heard in my life. That mustard and mayo residue gonna get hot.