“She was so proud.” The memory aches in the best way bringing relief from the constant drowning in heartbreak and wanting.
Everett's expression softens into something I haven't seen since he got back and I know tonight, when I go back to my room, it will be the new image haunting me when I close my eyes.
“She used to make me wear the brown one. Said it went well with my eyes.”
“Cinnamon. And it did.” The admission slips out before I can catch it.
His gaze sharpens on me, his unwavering stare making my cheeks burn and heat climb straight up my neck and into my hair.
“You weren't at the funeral.” His quiet voice held no accusation. Just an observation.
“I wanted to be there.” I grip the edge of the bar to anchor myself. “More than anything. But I couldn't—I didn't know how to be in the same room as you after so much time. With everyone watching. With my brothers there.” I swallow hard. “I didn't want to make her funeral about us.”
“It wouldn't have been about us.”
“You don't know that. And she deserved better. You deserved to say goodbye to your grandmother without…” I trail off, not sure how to finish.
“Without what?”
“Without me complicating everything. The way I always do.”
Everett is quiet for a long moment. His hands rest on the bar between us, close enough that I could reach out and touch them if I wanted to. I don't.
“I looked for you,” he finally says. “At the church. I kept thinking you'd walk in late, slide into a back pew. I kept turning around to check.”
The image hits me harder than I expected. Him in a dark suit, scanning the crowd. Hoping. Disappointed.
“I'm sorry,” I whisper.
“I'm not looking for an apology.” His voice is gentle in a way that makes my chest ache. “I'm just... I wanted you to know. That I noticed you weren'tthere.”
My eyes burn. I blink hard, refusing to let the tears fall.
“I was here, actually,” I say. “That day. At the lodge.”
He goes completely still.
“Everyone was at the church,” I continue, the words coming faster now. “The whole town practically. And the lodge was empty. So I drove up. Let myself in. And I came here. To the bar.”
“Why?”
“To say goodbye in my own way.” A watery laugh breaks free. “Imagine my surprise when I found her here. Her ashes, right here on this bar, in that hideous pink box she picked out. Told me if she had to be cremated, she was damn well going to do it in style.”
A sound escapes him—half laugh, half something else.
One hundred percent broken.
“That sounds like her,” he manages.
“She missed her own funeral. God, you know she loves that. So while everyone was at the church, giving speeches and sharing memories...” I press my palm flat against the bar, right where the box sat. “I was here. Just me and her. Talking to her like she could still hear me.”
Everett's knuckles turn white with every tightening of his hands as he clutches the bar.
“I told her I missed her.” My voice cracks on the words. “I told her I was sorry—for not being strong enough—so many things. And I told her I loved her. That I'd always love her.” I swipe my damp cheeks withthe sleeve of my sweater. “I got to say goodbye, Everett. Just not the way everyone else did.”
“Sierra...”
“I think she would have understood.” The words come out small but steady. “She always understood things that other people didn't. She saw things.” My voice catches. “And she never judged. She just loved.”
