I pull my door open and climb in, tossing my jacket behind me and starting the engine. The air conditioning blasts warm air from the vents, not helping the beads of sweat dripping down my temples.
Sawyer’s outside their car, staring back at the grave site until Helen says something and she gets inside, disappearing behind tinted windows. I’m already aching to have my eyes on her again.
The second I shut the door, Ella flips down the visor mirror, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue and checking her makeup. “God, I look awful,” she mutters, wiping under her lashes. “I’ve been crying all morning.”
I don’t respond. There’s no need. We’ve all been fucking crying. Ella’s phone buzzes and she looks at it. I glance over and see who’s texting her.
Her father. Vince Moretti.
She types back a response, while I try not to break my hands from how hard I’m gripping the wheel.
Heading out, I follow the procession of vehicles on their way toward my childhood home in The Manor.
Toward Sawyer.
Where I’ll have to stand in a room with her and act like I don’t want to pull her into my arms. Where I’ll have to play pretend for another goddamn day.
My parents housesits at the end of a tree lined street, a colonial revival with white columns and black shutters that my mother had repainted last year. The circular driveway is already packed with cars somehow, even though I was one of the first to leave. People are meandering around the front lawn, holding glasses of wine and making small talk.
They’re acting like this is a damn cocktail party and not a funeral. I grip the wheel tighter, fighting the urge to turn around and keep driving until I can’t see straight.
There’s one thing stopping me from doing that. Seeing Sawyer.
I pull in behind my father’s Benz and cut the engine.
“Ready?” Ella asks, checking her reflection one more time.
No. I’ll never be ready to walk into that house and pretend Owen’s absence isn’t a gaping wound. Pretend Sawyer isn’t a part of my family. Of my soul.
Is anyone ever ready for that?
But I get out anyway, spotting Moretti’s black Escalade parked nearby. I didn’t notice him at the church or the cemetery, but I’d bet he was there, lingering in the back.
Of course my father invited him. We need to keep up appearances. God forbid, business gets paused to bury my brother.
“Oh, good,” Ella says beside me, following my line of sight. “My father made it.”
Good. Right.
I nod and keep walking.
We’re not even halfway to the front door when people start approaching. Our old lacrosse coach. My father’s golf buddies.Mrs. Coleman from down the street who used to bake us cookies when we were kids.
The shoulder pats, the pitying eyes, the tears for someone they barely knew. The same five words again and again. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
It’s all so performative. They can go home and check off the box on their calendars.Attended funeral. Offered condolences. Done.
But the worst part is I’m performing too. I shake hands. I nod. I say thank you over and over until the words lose all meaning when all I really want to do is tell them all to get the fuck out of my house.
Ella stays close, her hand on my arm, being the supportive girlfriend. And I let her even though there’s only one person I want touching me right now.
“They’re all so sweet,” Ella says, once we catch a second to breathe. “I’m going to cry all over again. So many people cared about Owen…about your family.”
“Yeah.”
Why argue when it’s easier to agree?
We make it through the crowd and into the house.
