Nash dragged a hand down his face.“And what about that mess on your head—what’re we doin’ with that?”
“I already did my hair,” she bit out with a huff.
“Is that a joke?”he asked, eyeing the nest of half damp curls and loose pins.She’d tried; he’d give her that.One side was half-braided, but the rest was just…chaos.
“Bathroom,” he said, pointing down the hall.“Let’s go.”
Junie stomped ahead, planted herself in front of the mirror, and glared at him through the reflection.The room was a wreck—bobby pins everywhere, detangler puddled across the counter, a brush so full of hair it looked like it might growl and scurry off.
Cursing under his breath, Nash got to work—spraying, brushing—while she winced, shrugged, and swatted at his hands.
“You got a lotta goddamn hair,” he muttered, working a stubborn knot between his fingers.
“You got a lotta hands,” she shot back.“Ow, Daddy!Quit pullin’!”
“Quit movin’ and I won’t be pullin’!”
When he leaned back to survey his handiwork, her hair hung in a thick braid down her back.Not perfect, but tamed.Good enough.
“You gonna put that dress on now?”
“No,” she snapped.“This is what I’m wearin’.Take it or leave it.”
“You know, sometimes you sound just like your mama—”
Nash stopped himself before he finished—and that ain’t ever a compliment.
Junie crossed her arms, chin up.“Well, Mama ain’t always wrong.And Connor wouldn’t care what I’m wearin’.”
Regarding Addison—Nash disagreed.That goddamn woman was wrong more often than she was right, and louder every damn time.But Connor—
And just like that, he could see his friend: beer in hand, Junie on his shoulders, both of them singing off-key along with the radio.That was Connor before the drugs—full of noise, full of life.Never asking anyone to be anything more than what they were.
With a hard sigh, Nash pushed off the wall and nodded once.
“All right, Junebug.Let’s go say goodbye.”
Cassie leaned toward the mirror, running liquid liner along the curve of her lash line before flicking the pen into a sharp cat eye.Doing the same to the other, she stepped back and studied her reflection.
The guest room was warm and still, sunlight streaking the air.Dust motes drifted lazily through the golden light, and for a moment she just stood there, feeling unsettled—like something wasn’t quite right.Like she wasn’t ready.
She wore the black dress she’d spent the other morning pressing with Margie’s kettle, second-guessing it even now.The sheer cap sleeves, the low back—it all felt too polished, too formal for a Ridge funeral.Her hair didn’t help.Maybe she should’ve left it natural instead of smoothing it into soft waves.
Her jewelry suddenly felt like another mistake—a small stack of gold bangles at her wrist, small hoop earrings to match.The makeup, too.Too dark.Too deliberate.Like she was dressing for a stage instead of a graveside.
A soft ding broke her spiral.She reached for her phone, finding a picture from Jordan and Marta and a few others from the Ensemble—all of them squished together on a hotel bed, hands shaped into hearts.
We love you.We’re with you.
Cassie stared at it a moment longer than she meant to, then locked the screen and tossed the phone aside.She appreciated the sentiment—but it was already too much.The first wave in what she knew would be an endless tide of sympathy today.
Moving across the room, she slipped into a pair of black heels, only to kick them off again.She was in the hills, not at the pier at San Sebastián.The only thing four-inch heels were good for here was sinking into soggy grass.Digging through her luggage, she pulled out a pair of black suede boots—calf-high with a chunky heel—and tugged them on, tucking her phone inside one.
Then her gaze drifted to the desk, to her black violin case, scuffed and sticker-laden.And for a long moment, she just stared.
Most of the weekend had been split between her phone and the floor of Margie’s living room—late-night calls with Jordan, hours with Luanne scouring the internet for sheet music and lyrics, trying to decide what, if anything, they might perform at Connor’s service.She hadn’t practiced the song they’d settled on; hell, she wasn’t even sure she could walk out of this room, let alone perform.
With a slow breath, she reached for the case—half expecting the reluctance in her fingers to win.But when her hand curled around the handle, warm and familiar in her grip, somehow that was enough to carry her toward the door.
