I watch as she climbs out of the car and straightens her shoulders, though I know she was crying while the doors were closed. While a hundred mourners surround Nichols’ plot and chatter across a casket built for a soldier, it’s not until Nova Nichols starts this way that the true heart-wrenching emotion overtakes the crowd.
Which is an interesting tidbit of information to tuck away for later.
Mourners whisper Nova’s name, while others gossip about how tragic the car accident was.
He was so young.
So strong and kind and with such a promising future.
They discuss how brave he was to be in the military, and repeat stories only Nova could have told them—like how hepractically raised her after their parents passed, despite being the same age. They lament how sudden his death was, and some of them, with quieter voices, discuss how horrible Nova herself looks.
Not her clothes, or her hair, or the way she stares at her brother’s casket. But the long, purple bruise stretching from her temple to her jaw. The small butterfly Band-Aids holding her brow together, and the swelling at the side of her neck that could only result from a deep gash held together by stitches.
Ryan Nichols died at the intersection not so far from here a week ago. And Nova Nichols… well, shit, she could’ve just as easily faced the same fate.
For whatever reason, she chosenotto wear sunglasses today. Instead, she exposes herself and the tears already on her lashes to a group of a hundred or more. When an older guy—short, round, and a total blubbering mess—approaches her with flowers, she accepts them with the strength of a thousand men, firming her jaw and clamping down on lips I know would otherwise tremble.
She holds the bouquet between her ribs and arm as she’s passed from one mourner to the next. Hugs, kisses. She accepts each with a forced smile and a nod of her chin. Tears flow softly, silently, from her eyes and over her cheeks.
There will be no hysteria or fits of rage today.
There will be no screams of anguish or, my personal hatred, falling to her knees and crying up at the Heavens.Thank fuck. The last is awkward for everyone in attendance.
Maybe Nova’s firm hold on her feelings is born from growing up in a military family. Or it could be because she’s already buried people before. Fuck knows, maybe she didn’tactually give a shit about her brother at all. But her stoic stance and quiet grief make for an easier transition for all.
I stand at the back of a chattering, sniffling crowd while they work through the motions of saying goodbye. And though Nova’s eyes flicker to me, I lower my gaze and allow her a chance to bury the man before I step forward and make my introductions.
I already feel like an asshole for infringing on a deeply personal event.
Despite what Richard says about my past, I’m not as unfeeling and cold as he thinks. I’m just a man with a job and a desire to keep Scarlett out of prison andnotsix feet underground. So I watch through the music. The eulogy. The loud tears—the older, rounder guy’s—and then the click, click, click of a casket lowering into the ground.
For that, Nova’s almost-detachment breaks away, and her knees turn to shit. But her friend, the one who drove her over, wraps an arm across her back and holds her close as the young soldier disappears beneath ground level.
And then it’s done.
Time to fold in and secure an introduction.
I’m such a prick.
5
NOVA
WAS IT WORTH IT?
Idon’t know if it’s in the rules to create a line at a funeral and tell the deceased’s next of kin how sorry you are, but that’s what happens today. And now that I think about it, it’s what happened almost nine years ago when we buried our parents, too. Sally, the clerk down at the grocery store. Duke, from Duke’s Diner. Every human I think I’ve ever met in Mount Gaines joins the line, and one by one, they pull me in for a hug. They whisper words. Some of the braver few press a kiss to my cheek. And ultimately, they all cement my desperate yearning for a warm shower and to be left the hell alone.
But while they pass me from one set of arms to the next, I keep the shadowed stranger in the corner of my eye. The one who stands around six-feet and two or three inches tall. The one with dark hair and dark eyes and a jaw gritted so tight, my teeth ache in response.
He stands outbecauseI don’t recognize him.
He’s like a thorn in the side of my mindbecauseof his broad build and emotionless stare.
He’s the only person here yet to shed a tear, and his body screams military, even from thirty feet away. So I keep him tucked away in the recesses of my mind, a small portion of my consciousness worried he might toss a flower on Ryan’s casket and walk away, never to reappear again. But when he joins the end of Edwin’s line and quietly makes his way closer, I bring my focus back to whoever hugs me now—Janice, from the bank—and offer her a reassuring smile as she blubbers all over my dress.
I work through the crowd and lock down on the fact I’d rather be at home, curled into a ball and sobbing on my damn own. Because my tears are for Ryan and me. They’re private. They’re not for the masses. But I know my role, and comfort those who think they’re comforting me. Since I can focus on them and not on the open plot of land just ten feet away, I’m able to pull my emotions under control.
Rein in my hurt and regulate my breath.
