Holy hell.His voice—low and familiar—had thawed something frozen inside her, warming it enough that she could move again.
And now, with him so near, his shirtsleeve brushing her bare arm every time either of them shifted, the echo of him—and that goddamn nickname—still clung to her.
Cassie drew in a slow breath and fixed her eyes across the grave, where the rest of the Kings stood in a line—boots planted, hands clasped in front of them.They stood like sentinels, quiet and unmoving.Behind them, the remaining mourners clustered in small groups.
The preacher finished and stepped aside, and Harvell moved forward, a leather folder pressed to his chest.
“On behalf of the family,” he said, nodding to their small group, “you’re welcome to come forward—toss a handful of flowers, dirt, or leave something of your own.”
The Kings went first.
One by one, they stepped up to the grave.Most chose dirt over flowers, letting it spill from their fists onto the casket below.Others left whatever they'd carried in with them—coins, Zippos, pins, patches torn from their cuts without a second thought.Small things.Pieces of a life shared.
Then came Addison, a small bunch of wildflowers gathered in her hands.She knelt at the edge of the grave and scattered them over the casket.Beside her, Junie dug into the pocket of her jeans, pulling out a folded square of paper.She bent to drop it in, but a breeze caught the edge, lifting it from her fingers and sending it tumbling across the grave.
Straight into Cassie.
She caught it half-open and smoothed it flat.It wasn’t paper, but a photograph.Connor stood behind Junie on a weedy baseball diamond, glove in hand, the other giving Junie devil horns, laughing like he always did.Junie couldn’t have been more than six or seven—gap-toothed grin and wielding a baseball bat like a sword.
Cassie’s throat closed around the ache that blossomed; the hand holding the photo began to shake.It could’ve been them—her and Connor—the way he’d always stand tall behind her, both guiding her and teasing her at the same time.The way she’d ignore him, doing whatever the hell she wanted anyway.
Margie covered Cassie’s trembling hands with hers.“You see that, Cassie-girl,” she murmured roughly.“He was loved, and he damn well knew it.”
She gave Cassie’s hands a squeeze before easing the photo free.“And don’t you let the what-ifs make you forget it.”
While Margie walked off to return the photo to Junie, Cassie wrapped her arms tightly around herself.Around them, the rest of the mourners began to drift away—soft footsteps through the grass, murmured prayers, flowers dropping one by one into the grave until only a few people remained: Margie back at Cassie’s side, Nash still on her left, and the preacher standing with Harvell a short distance off.
Eventually, Nash stepped forward, looking down at his hand, where the two Kings’ rings sat side by side.Sunlight caught the metal as he twisted one free—his own—and let it fall.
It struck the casket with a dull, ringing note, half-swallowed by soil and crushed petals.
Staring at what remained—Connor’s ring—he worked it loose and slid it onto his other finger, filling the empty groove his own had left behind.His hand closed into a fist.Then, without a word, he turned and walked off, striding stiffly toward the cemetery gate where the rest of the Kings and their families were gathered.
Beside Cassie, Margie gave her arm a quick rub.“I’ll be just over yonder—you take as much time as you need.”
Cassie took one long, shuddering breath, then stepped forward.Bending, she pressed her hand deep into the mound of loose dirt, feeling the cool grit slip between her fingers.Grabbing a fistful, for a moment she just held it over the grave.
Her eyes closed, and the memory came easy—his dark hair a mess of unruly curls, his grin wide and wild, hollering something smart that made her curse and smack him—which of course just made him laugh even harder.
Opening her hand, she let the dirt sift through slowly, falling in a thin stream that pattered softly against the lid below.
“Goodbye, Connor,” she whispered.
Just then a warm breeze stirred through the trees, sending dogwood petals drifting from above—white and weightless—spinning down all around her.Cassie blinked up through the branches, tears stinging her eyes.
Cassie sat on the front steps, the wood warm beneath her, watching as Margie’s porch filled and emptied all afternoon—part wake, part supper hour.Folks had come and gone most of the day, leaving behind too much food and not near enough appetite.
Now, only a few stragglers remained, scattered across the porch and yard.
Eunice and Margie sat rocking slow in the fading light, chairs creaking in harmony.Margie cradled Becca and Brady’s youngest, the baby asleep against her chest, while Charlie leaned against the railing, pipe smoke curling up and disappearing into the evening air.
“…and I told my foreman, I said, ‘I’m faster than your time clock.’And you know what he said to me?”Margie asked, cutting her eyes toward Charlie.
Charlie let out a deep, easy laugh.“I said, ‘That’s fine, Margie, but the time clock don’t cuss me out every morning.’”
Eunice wheezed with laughter, while Margie wagged her finger at him.“And yet you kept me on.”
“Hell, woman,” Charlie said, grinning around his pipe, “bein’ cussed out by you was always the best part of my day.”
