He squeezes me. “That’s okay. I’m here now.”
“The funeral home won’t open to the public for another half hour. It’s just the family inside now.”
“Do you want to go in?”
Taking a shaky breath, I nod. “I haven’t seen him yet. I want to, before it’s too late and I lose the chance.”
He keeps his arm around me on our way in. We wait for one of my aunts to finish first.
Dread knots my stomach as we approach for my turn. I wasn’t able to see him once I got home. This is the first time I’ll face him since he passed away.
The cushion to kneel on beside the casket feels strange against my tights. All the fresh flower arrangements tickle my nose with their strong perfume.
I stare at the pastel blue cushion, willing myself to look up. My chest heaves in trepidation.
“It’s okay.” Easton rubs my back, kneeling beside me. “You have all the time you need, Maya. Breathe for me.”
I’m not prepared when I lift my gaze.
It’s—wrong to see him lying so still. So stiff.
Whenever I caught him napping on the couch when I visited his house in high school, he’d sleep hard with his mouth open, snoring loud enough to wake the neighbors on either side of the dairy farm.
He’s like a waxy doll. His hands are arranged over his stomach. They’re far more frail and bony than when I last saw him.
Sliding my lips together, I gather the courage to hold his hand. A startled noise catches in my throat.
“It’s cold,” I whisper.
Cold. Rigid. Unable to hold my hand like he did when I was a little girl.
Easton covers my hand with his. I close my eyes as more memories with Grandpa hit me.
All the times we spent together in the stable. The day he gave me the Donnelly Dairy hat I love so much. When I was younger and so excited when me and Ryan got to have a sleepover withhim at the farm. The first time the car broke down while I was driving and calling him to walk me through what to do.
He’s always been there and now he won’t be.
In my head, I hear his voice calling me chicken.
I cover my face, breath quickening into sharp gasps. Easton helps me to my feet and tugs me into his arms. He guides me away from the casket to find us a private corner for my breakdown.
“I know, baby,” he says gruffly. “I know.”
When I calm down, he’s massaging my nape. I lift my head from his chest, frowning at the wet spot and mascara smearing his shirt. At this rate, I think I’ve cried off all the makeup I reapplied after the service.
“You’re a mess now. I’m sorry.”
“What are you apologizing for? Come on.” He captures my hand and finds the bathroom. “I don’t care about my suit.”
“Why can’t I stop?” I mumble. “No one else is losing it as much as I am.”
“Because loss fucking hurts. Everyone handles it differently. So no shame—cry your eyes out. Feel whatever you’re feeling as long as you don’t bottle it up. Trust me, it doesn’t work.” His lips twist ruefully. “It’ll still come out.”
He picks through the basket stocked with toiletries, finding a packet of makeup wipes. Grasping my chin, he carefully wipes my face clean with a cool, soothing wipe.
“What about you?”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m good.” Once he’s done, he wets a thick napkin and holds it over my puffy eyes. “How’s that feel?”
