After locking up, I climb the stairs to my room, which unfortunately overlooks the lake. The guesthouse light is still burning across the water, a reminder I didn’t ask for. I change into pajamas, slide under the covers, and stare at the ceiling for too long. Sleep. I need sleep.
CHAPTER FOUR
ETHAN
The sun is too fuckingbright in this guesthouse. Somebody should’ve put up some curtains. I stare at the ceiling until my eyes ache, then finally grab my phone.
November 4th, 6:02 a.m. Today is going to be a long and painful day.
The house is quiet. Too quiet. I swing my legs out of bed, feet hitting the cold floor. My chest is already tight, like there’s no room to breathe. Maybe a shower will take the edge off. The water comes out freezing before it scalds, and I let it burn my skin. I brace my hands against the tile and lower my head, steam rising around me. I scrub down fast, not because I’m in a rush, but because I can’t stand still long enough to let it all catch up.
By the time I shut off the water, I’m shaking. I towel off and stare at the suit hanging on the chair. Black, somber, pressed, ready, and waiting for me. But I’m not prepared. I don’t think I’ll ever be.
In the kitchen, I make coffee the way Mom liked it, too strong, almost bitter. The smell fills the place, and for a second, it’s like she’s here. The memory hits harder than I expect, and I have to grip the counter until the sting behind my eyes passes. I sip the coffee, it burns down my throat, and glance out the window. Across the lake, her mom’s house sits quiet, except for the faintest shadow moving behind the curtains upstairs.
She’s there. And for the first time all morning, my heart doesn’t feel like stone. But it feels like it might break all over again. So, at this point, I don’t know which one is worse.
The church feels toosmall with this many people packed inside. I should be grateful to know that Mom was really loved here. Everyone knew her, everyone wanted to show up. But right now, it just feels suffocating. “I can’t believe they put the fucking lilies in the center. I told them sides only, not the center.” Maggie’s voice cuts through my thoughts. Her voice is sharp, and she is irritated. And thank God for it.
“Language, young lady. You’re in a church, for Christ’s sake,” Dad mutters with a half-laugh. He doesn’t actually care. He’s never been religious a day in his life, but he enjoys giving Maggie shit when he can. She scoffs, heels clicking against the tile as she keeps walking.
Dad lingers beside me. His hand rests on my shoulder, heavy, grounding. “You okay, son?” The question throws me. If today’s brutal for me, it’s got to be hell for him. “Yeah… you?” He exhales, eyes on the casket. “I need to be okay. Otherwise, your mother will come back to kick my ass.” That gets a laugh out of me, small but real. “Yeah. She would.” And for a second, standing there with him, it feels like we’re both holding each other up.
The service is… fine. Nice, even. People said all the good things they could think of, shared stories, hugs, tears. But Maggie’s speech—no one was topping that. She’s always had a way of finding the words, of speaking for all of us when the rest of us can’t. Oldest child privilege, I guess.
Afterward, we move through the motions, shaking hands, hugging neighbors, saying goodbye to the ones who won’t be coming by the house, and seeing you later to the ones who will. “I should get going,” Maggie says, already shifting into command mode. “Aunt Davia’s coming with me to get the house ready. Catering should be arriving soon.” Her voice is steady, clipped, like she’s running logistics for work instead of Mom’s funeral. We nod.
“Tell Mooney you’re leaving,” Dad adds, rubbing his temple. “She’s got the flower people lined up to deliver everything to the house.” That hits me. Mooney means Olivia. Which means later, in the house, I’ll have to see heragain. Here we fucking go. This day keeps getting harder.
We gather our things, shake the priest’s hand, andthank him before slipping out. The air outside feels heavy, like even the sky knows what kind of day this is.
The ride home is mostly quiet. Dad mumbling about how many people he hasn’t seen since high school, Leo rolling his eyes at the ones who haven’t let us breathe since Mom passed. None of it sticks. It’s just noise to fill the silence. I stare out the window as I drive, watching the town blur by. When we finally pull into the drive, cars are already lining the street and crowding the yard. The windows glow, and through the glass we can see shadows —people moving everywhere, eating, drinking, talking.
As I kill the engine, Dad says, “Alright, boys. Time to be good hosts. Otherwise, your mother will come back to haunt us all.” We chuckle, soft and tired, because we know he’s right. If anyone could raise hell from the other side over a badly hosted wake, it’d be Mom. We climb out, straighten our jackets, and head inside together.
I’m leaning by the patio doors, whiskey in hand, talking to Leo. Or more like letting him talk while he laughs at his own jokes. I don’t laugh. Haven’t really had it in me lately. I stare at him and nod. Like I always do. That’s when I spot her, but I act like I didn’t see her.Coward. And the second she steps out onto the porch, I feel like the ground shifts under me. “Hey, Leo,” she says, easy. Chill. Like she didn’t just turn my chest inside out. And then her eyes find me. I turn, and it’s like no time has passed at all.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hi.” Leo glances between us, smirk fading. Heknows better. Brother code kicks in quickly. “Going to check on Dad,” he says, and slips back inside, which leaves us alone for the first time in sixteen years, that’s if you don’t count the hundred people on the house.
I take a slow sip of whiskey, nod once. The silence stretches. This is awkward. It feels like even the air remembers what we were, even if we’re pretending, we don’t. She’s the one who breaks it. “So, I won’t do the sad questions. How’s life outside of this?” She gestures toward the house. I scoff, caught off guard. Of all the things I could’ve said, I just landed with, “Good.” She raises a brow. “Good? That’s all I get?”
“Didn’t realize we were playing catch-up,” I shoot back, but it comes out rougher than I mean. Her eyes don’t flinch. “How’s married life?” And there it is—a pause I can’t cover. Barely a second, but I know she could feel it.
“Good, Hannah’s good,” I say finally. “Is good your new favorite word?” she shoots back. God. I hate her for making me smile like this. She’s still feisty. Still funny. Stillher. “Maybe I’m just trying to keep things simple,” I say, swirling the whiskey in my glass. “You know, one-word answers. Low expectations.”
She tilts her head, lips twitching like she’s fighting a grin. “Always the minimalist. Some things never change.” She says, rolling her eyes at me.
“Some things do.” I don’t mean for it to come out so low, but it does. Her eyes flick to mine. For a second, we’re teenagers again, arguing about nothing on this same porch until it turned into something. Sheclears her throat first. “And the kids? You’ve got two, right?”
“Yeah, two girls. Claire and Leight. You?”
“Two boys. Mathew and Jeremiah. They’re loud, but great kids.” She smiled at the mentions of them. Good, she’s truly happy. I ask before I can stop myself. “Still living in—?” She cuts me off., “—in the city, yeah.” Short, one-word answer. Like she’s daring me to push further. But I don’t. Not yet. I take another sip to see if the burn steadies me. “You always were good at asking questions.”
“And you always were bad at answering them.” I laugh under my breath, shake my head. “Guess not much has changed after all.” Her eyes soften for just a beat. “Guess not.”
“What about work?” she asks, like we’re doing small talk at a networking event instead of standing on my dad’s porch after my mom’s funeral. “Busy,” I say, keeping it short. “I travel a lot.”
