Page 126 of When the Smoke Clears

Maren doesn’t respond as I sink further into this endlessly dark hole. The silence drags on while I think of an explanation. Do I need to explain why I love Everleigh Reichart? Does it matter?

“We know. Everyone saw it before you,” she says. “I’ll see if I can find her.”

“No.” I flop back onto the bed. “Let her go. We all just need to . . . let her go. After she moved into the shed, I wanted to kill her, you, and everyone else. Then things just sort of happened, as they always seem to do with her. And I should have said something to you sooner, but I was embarrassed about losing my shit with you. I played the fucking victim, and I just thought that was the hill I’d die on. But then . . .”

“Jesus,” she whispers. “It’s like Fitz and Jamie all over again. What is wrong with you and Fitz? Why must you first hate the person you’re meant to love?”

“She’s not the person I’m meant to love. Bad things happen because life can be unfortunate, luck is random, and humans are fallible. Everleigh is taking a job at Johns Hopkins. That’s meant to be.”

“Okay,” Maren says slowly. “Then why are you looking for her?”

“Because she was with my—” My eyes burn as the words congest in my throat.

“She was with your?” Maren asks.

“She was with my father when he died,” I whisper.

“Oh . . . That’s surprising. You weren’t there?”

“No.”

“Then why was she?”

I shake my head and sigh. “I don’t know.”

“Had she met your father?”

“No.”

“That’s crazy.”

“She won’t answer her phone or reply to my text. So if you see her, just tell her I need to talk to her.”

“Of course. And I’ll check her place. Maybe she’s working on her barndo.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I say, but I don’t think she’s working on a place she’s not going to live in.

Chapter Forty-One

I’m peopled out.

Visitation. Family. Dinner. Breakfast. Funeral. Luncheon. More family. Dare I say I envy my dad?

“You’re entirely too sober,” Fitz says, handing me a beer as I stare at the flurries over the lake from the deck.

I find a half grin and take the bottle as Jamie, Maren, and Ozzy crowd onto the porch with me, sitting around the fire table. Fitz wraps a throw blanket around Jamie and hugs her to him. Maren blows at something steaming in a coffee mug as she perches on Ozzy’s lap in the other rocker.

“Your mom wanted to be alone in her room.” Jamie’s nose wrinkles. “Your sister is sitting on the floor outside her door, nursing the baby. I told her it’s okay to let your mom have a little space.”

I sip my beer before nodding.

“But we’re not giving you space,” Maren says with a smirk before blowing at the steam again. “We’re the kind of friends who like to be up in each other’s business.”

Our collective laughter lacks its usual energy. Maybe I’m not the only one who’s not drunk enough. I set my beer aside and then run my hands through my hair. The alcohol doesn’t touch this kind of grief. My body’s not numb to the pain; it’s numb to the vices that have gotten me through everything else in my life until now.

“I should have spoken,” I say. “The pastor asked me to speak at the funeral, but I couldn’t.”

“No one expected you to speak,” Maren says.