Eventually, the crowd thins.
Someone takes the last casserole dish and promises to return my Tupperware. Someone hugs me again and whispers, “Call me if you need anything,” and I nod like I’m capable of calling anyone for anything ever again.
The front door closes.
And then—quiet.
Not the earlier quiet, but the morning-before-the-funeral quiet.
This is a different kind.
This is the quiet that happens when the world stops visiting.
When you’re left with the fact that life is still yours to live, even though you don’t want it.
I stand in the living room and stare at nothing.
Cameron is by the window, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched like the weight of the day finally landed all at once. He looks older than he did two weeks ago. Older than he did a year ago. Like grief moved into his bones and rearranged the furniture.
Logan is in the kitchen, rinsing plates that don’t need to be rinsed, cleaning because his hands need something to do besides shake.
I can hear the water running.
It’s too normal.
Everything is too normal.
I inhale.
The air tastes like flowers and food and the faintest trace of Pops’s cologne that’s still trapped in the couch cushions.
My throat closes.
I swallow hard, forcing it open again.
I look at them—my brother, my…Logan—and the words come out before I can stop them.
“I’m going to take a shower.”
Cameron turns toward me immediately. His eyes look glassy, but his voice stays careful. “You okay?”
I almost laugh.
Instead, I nod. “Yeah.”
The lie doesn’t even hurt anymore. It’s just what I say to keep people from trying to fix me.
Logan’s hands stop moving in the sink. He doesn’t turn around right away, like he’s giving me dignity.
Then his voice, low. “Do you want me to…?”
He doesn’t finish.
Do you want me to sit outside the door? Do you want me to stay? Do you want me to hold you? Do you want me to leave?
Too many options. Too much emotion.
I shake my head once. “I’m fine.”
