Page 128 of When the Smoke Clears

Bowing my head, I exhale. “After what happened between us eleven years ago, I convinced myself I hated her . . . almost as much as I loved her. As I love her.” I laugh a little, but I can’t look at them, not yet. “My dad would have been just as enamored of her. He would have said, ‘Now you know why I married your mother.’ He was drawn to anyone who had a story to tell. Mom had a story. She lost her parents before she turned sixteen. She helped raise her siblings. Put herself through college. And she never lost faith that one day she’d find someone to love and who would take care of her the way she took care of everyone else for years. Everleigh has a story. And I hope the best is yet to come. She deserves a storybook ending.”

Silence.

I risk a glance up at my friends. Maren and Jamie have tears in their eyes. Ozzy doesn’t make eye contact at all.

“Then give it to her,” Maren says. Jamie chokes on a sob, but she does it with a smile and a sappy sparkle of hope in her eyes.

“My mom needs me,” I say.

No one argues because they know it’s true.

“Then let her go. Problem solved,” Fitz says, guiding Jamie to stand with him.

“Let her go?” Jamie’s jaw drops. “Let. Her. Go? That’s your solution? Because that’s what you did to me?”

“Yep.” He grabs her face and kisses her head. “See how that worked out for us?”

“Calvin Fitzgerald”—she scowls—“that’s terrible advice.”

“You know what’s good advice?” He looks around the room. “Letting Will and his family have some time alone. It’s been a long day.”

On his cue, Maren and Ozzy stand.

I lumber to my feet, not expecting something so simple to feel this hard. My friends give me hugs. As long as I don’t try to speak, I can keep my shit together. I love them like family.

“Don’t let her go,” Jamie whispers in my ear. Then she rests her hand on my cheek. “But if you do, you’ll be fine. And so will she.”

With a hard swallow, I nod and force a smile.

Fine. Not good. Not amazing. Just fine.

But what if I’m not?

Chapter Forty-Two

I try to properly grieve. Whatever that means. Hold my mom’s hand? Reminisce about my father? Contemplate my life? But no one gives me a chance. My sister heads home less than twenty-four hours after the funeral. And my mom packs her suitcase the following morning.

“Uh, where are you going?” I ask, standing in the doorway to their bedroom—her bedroom. Dad hated the white quilt with cherry blossoms. The gray fabric headboard. The bougie chandelier that replaced his practical ceiling fan. And the pink velvet bench at the end of the bed that he said made him feel emasculated every morning when he sat on it to put on his socks.

“After the funeral, Regina invited me to visit her in Vermont. So I bought a train ticket,” Mom says.

“Now? You’re leaving now?”

“Yes, William,” she says, folding a sweater like she’s mad at it.

I scrub my hands over my face. “Don’t you think you need to take a minute before packing your things and leaving?”

“A minute to what?” She faces me, holding out her hands. “Cry? Miss him? Stare at everything in this house and think about him?”

“Well, yes. Isn’t that why they say grieving is a process?”

“Who are they, and why should I care what they say? There is no right or wrong way to grieve. Leah will find her way. I’ll find mine. And you’ll find yours. No judgment. It’s not a race. It can take a day or a lifetime. It can be a moment or a process. But Regina lost her mom last year, and she’s my oldest friend, so I feel like spending time with her will help me move on. Staying here will feel like a roadblock because he’s . . .” She looks around, tears filling her eyes. “Everywhere,” she whispers. “And yet, somehow gone.”

I drop my head and rub the tension from my neck.

“But if you need me, I won’t go. Not now. You’re my boy, and I choose you and your sister over everything else. Always.”

“I know,” I murmur.