Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103109 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103109 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
I shake my head. “I’m fine. It’s almost over.”
Slowly, Easton works his way through my family members, inching closer to us with each condolence.
When he reaches me, it’s not the memory of three weeks ago that makes my knees weak but the emotion in those sea-green eyes. I’ve been so focused on Dad and being there for my family the past few weeks that I haven’t had time to talk to Easton, let alone consider how this loss would affect him. How could I be so selfish and forget what my dad meant to Easton? Dad was always there when Easton’s own should have been.
Easton doesn’t say anything. He pulls me into his arms and buries his face into my neck. His body trembles slightly. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his voice thick.
I stroke down his back over and over, and when he finally pulls away, the tears I heard in his voice are streaming down his cheeks.
“Easton,” Mom says, grabbing his forearm. “Thank you so much for coming.”
Easton’s gaze stays glued to me for a long beat before he finally turns to her. “Your husband was an incredible man. I’m so grateful he was part of my life.”
“Come on,” Jake says, taking my hand. “Let’s go back to the house and get something to eat.”
I swallow and give one last look to Easton, like I’m drowning and he’s my life raft. Mom’s taken him over to the casket and is telling him the story about when she bought Dad the suit he’s wearing. He thought it was too expensive and a waste of money, but Mom insisted that with his build, he needed something custom-fitted to him. Dad declared that at the price they paid, the damn thing better fit him till the day he died and make him look as handsome as George Clooney when he was laid to rest.
Jake tugs my hand. “Mom will be okay,” he says. “Unless you needed to talk to Easton again?”
What is there to talk about, really? Do I want to use my father’s funeral as the opportunity to confess that part of me has always waited for him? That I’d probably wait for him forever? “No. Let’s go.”
Easton came to the house, and it was like old times. There was so much laughter and food and reminiscing that it felt more like another holiday than a wake. That’s just how Dad would want it, but I kept catching myself waiting for my father to walk into the kitchen.
It’s strange how our brains work, because the dad I had for the past few years was sick more often than not. Thin and weak. Bald. But when I imagine him walking into the kitchen, I imagine the tall and strong father from my childhood. The pre-cancer dad. Even at the end, the reality of his condition only hit me in blips. Most of the time my brain didn’t process the changes. Couldn’t.
If he were here, he’d follow the sound of our voices into the kitchen. Dad always chased the crowd—loved the house to be full and was happier in the middle of chaos than alone with a good book, like me. He’d go straight to Mom, like always, as if he needed to touch her and convince himself she was real, because a lifetime together would never be enough. Then he’d sit down at the table and listen. That was what he liked best about big groups. He didn’t want to be the center of attention or talk constantly, but he loved hearing everyone’s stories. And when he did speak, you listened, because you knew whatever he gave you would be good.
“Are you okay?”
I didn’t even realize I was staring into space, but I blink away from the alternate reality and turn toward Easton. His eyes are so gentle, his hand warm as it cups my shoulder. I nod. “I think it might take me ten years to accept that he’s gone.” I say it softly, knowing the words might send any number of people into another crying jag if they overheard them.
“I get that.” He points to the back doors. “Some fresh air?”
“I’d like that.” I grab a couple of beers from the fridge and follow Easton outside. It’s dark, well past sunset, but we don’t bother with the lights. He stops on the patio, but I shake my head and lead the way to the treehouse, climbing the old ladder one-handed until I reach the privacy of the fort my father built for us.
I’m sinking to the floor and pulling the bottle opener from my pocket when I hear Easton’s feet scraping against the rungs and spot his head poking into the tiny wooden house.
“I don’t think I’ve been up here since I was ten,” he says, pulling himself inside. He’s too tall to stand, so he stays on his knees and crawls to the wall opposite me, extending his long legs so they’re next to mine.