Page 125 of When the Smoke Clears

“Um . . .” Natalie eyes the hospice nurse as if she needs permission to tell me. “She said, ‘Whatever comes next, I’m sure it’s amazing. Godspeed.’”

A sob rips from my mom’s chest. I hunch beside her, wrapping one arm around her shaking body. My other hand rests on top of my dad’s leg.

“H-he’s gone,” she says.

“I know,” I whisper in her ear before kissing her cheek. “I know.”

By evening, my sister and her family arrive. As she and my mom comfort each other in the living room, I hole up in the bedroom. My first call is to Everleigh. She doesn’t answer, so I text her.

Will: Please call me

She doesn’t reply, so I call Maren.

“Hey, Will,” she says cautiously because she knows why I might be calling. My delayed response says it all.

“Oh, Will.” She chokes. “I’m so sorry.”

Tears burn my eyes. I didn’t think it would be this hard to say the words aloud. I nod, choking on the fucking awful emotions. Maybe I should have jumped onto a video chat so at least she could see me nodding.

Yes, my father died.

Thank you for being my friend.

“As soon as Ozzy and Lola get home, we’ll book a hotel and head that way.”

“No . . .” I try to clear my throat, but it’s hard. “No rush. The funeral won’t be until next week. After Thanksgiving.”

There’s a silent pause. Maybe she’s trying to figure out how to fix this. I wanted to fix things when her brother died. But death isn’t a state of brokenness. There are no pieces. It’s not a tornado where everything is scattered but still exists. Death is fire. Ashes and smoke. Nothing to pick up, repair, or put back together.

“But if you need me, I’m there. Okay?”

Again, I nod as if she can see me. Then I manage a clipped “’Kay.”

“Love you, Will. Give your mom a hug from me, and we’ll see you soon.”

I clear my throat. “Uh, have you by any chance seen Everleigh?”

“Everleigh? Not recently. Why?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes. “No reason.”

“I’ll call and tell her about your dad so you don’t have to.”

I’m an asshole.

“The timing is shit,” I mumble.

“Oh. Well, I don’t have to tell her at all. And if she’s hurt by it—”

“I love her,” I say, but it feels as crushing as saying my father died.

I love her, but the timing is wrong. The place. The age difference. Career paths. It’s all wrong. Despite every level of wrongness, Everleigh feels like mine.

When I was seven, I gave my Grandma Landry a pine cone I had tucked away on a hike with my father. She painted it gold and sprinkled it with glitter. I secretly wanted to ask for it back because it was so cool, but my sister asked first. And before I could say anything, Grandma gave my sister the painted pine cone.

It was mine. Sure, I gifted it to our grandma, but if she was going to give it away to anyone, it should have been me.

When some other guy takes Everleigh’s heart, I will have no one but myself to blame. I’ve never held on to her. They will see how she shines like gold and sparkles like glitter.