I drive myself.
Brooks drives Jasper and Wren.
I park. I get out.
There’s a small crowd gathered near the cemetery plot. A preacher from a nearby church stands quietly at the front. I recognize a few faces from town. Even Holden is here, standing off to the side like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
The words are brief.
Someone sings a hymn off-key.
Flowers are placed on the coffin like offerings to a life we didn’t expect to lose so soon. Then it’s lowered into the ground with a quiet finality that steals the breath from my lungs.
I don’t cry.
I just stand there.
Alone.
Apart.
I feel like the tether that held me here—this town, this house, this life—is gone. Without Dad, this place doesn’t feel like home. It feels like evidence.
And that can only mean one thing: it’s time to go back to California.
I’ll leave the day after tomorrow.
We gather at a small pub on Main Street afterward. The guys from the lumber yard pass around pitchers of beer and recount stories about Dad. How he used to prank the new hires. How he could fix anything with duct tape and stubbornness.
Then, it’s my turn.
Someone hands me the microphone. I stand, glass in hand, and fidget with the rim of it, the cold condensation clinging to my skin.
I don’t have a speech.
I barely have a voice.
But I do have memories. And love. And grief all balled up behind my ribs.
I clear my throat. "As far as dads go... mine was the best."
A hush falls over the room.
"You could always find him watching football in that same old recliner. The one he’s had since before I was born. He’d fill his red cup with coffee before work every morning and drink it all day, even when it was cold. He took us on road trips. Sang off-key to the radio. Some oldie while he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Laughed at his own jokes. He taught me how to fix a leaky sink, drive a stick shift, and never settle for a boy who doesn’t deserve me."
I pause, blinking back the sting in my eyes.
"I always thought we had more time. But we didn’t. And still... I’m grateful for every second I got with him."
I raise my glass. "To Dad. The best man I ever knew."
The room lifts their glasses in quiet unison.
I drink.
But the ache in my chest doesn’t fade.
Eventually, Brooks makes his way over to the small table I’ve claimed in the back corner. His jaw is shadowed with stubble, his eyes rimmed in exhaustion and something deeper. Grief, maybe. Or regret.
