Chapter 32
Cora
The sun shines for the first time in weeks. It seems so unfair. Shouldn’t it rain at a funeral? Shouldn’t the sky mourn with us?
Tessa sniffles loudly beside me. Dad smiles from his framed photograph next to his coffin. He doesn’t even look like himself. Why did we choose a picture where he is still smiling? Vital. Himself.
Alive.
Ethan’s was the last funeral I had attended. I was heavily sedated just to get through it. I wonder if his other woman was there. He was smiling brightly in his photo as well, the cheating bastard.
It’s been almost ten years, and I forgot grief hurts physically. I fidget in my seat, the minister’s droning an annoying buzz in my head.
How old was Dad in that picture?
The grief, the pain, the void are too overwhelming, so I focus on my irrational anger at the photograph.
Tessa stands up to speak. I gave her the privilege. She asked for it. She said she needs to speak, because she wasn’t there for him as much as she should have been.
I was going to fight her on that, but this loss came on the heels of my other loss… I just don’t have it in me to… exist?
A violent sob leaves my lungs.
And now I’m mad at Xander. For betraying me and for stubbornly clinging to my heart, even if he is no longer in my life.
I can’t deal with all the loss. Another sob breaks free, and Paul squeezes my hand. I jerk away. I don’t want Tessa’s ex-husband to console me.
My niece smiles at me sadly, and I turn back to Dad’s photograph. I can’t cope with everyone else’s sadness. I can’t cope with my own.
People chuckle around me. Tessa must have said something funny. I hug my midriff, the chill raking through my body.
A warm hand squeezes my shoulder. It must be Saar, Celeste, or Lily who flew from London for this. They sit in the row behind me, their support the only lifeline I’ve had in the last few months.
I divorced Xander. I couldn’t forgive him for all the manipulation and exploitation. When I cry myself to sleep, which has been my usual way these days, I regret it.
Forgiving him seemed like capitulation.
Like giving up on myself.
Like letting him win at his shady game.
Forgiving him felt like betraying myself.
Like cementing our relationship on an unequal foundation.
And letting him rule me.
When I signed those divorce papers, something died inside me. Something vital—a piece of me I didn’t even know I had. And I had buried a man before.
Stubbornly, I believed time would heal the wound. Tough shit. Don’t they say that broken people survive better because they’ve done it before?
Well, not in my case. With Xander, without realizing it fully, I lost more than I could ever replace.
It pisses me off. This stupid dependency. But when I close my eyes, I know it’s love. I love the man, and based on his recent actions, he still loves me back.
He might have acted on the feeling in his deplorable, manipulating way—no one ever showed him differently—but I know he loves me.
And that’s the core of the problem. Just because someone betrays you, you don’t stop loving them.
Tessa stumbles from the podium and collapses beside me.
I look at Dad’s photo and the bottle of Zinfandel I left there instead of flowers, and suddenly, I realize I can’t watch his coffin disappear.
I want to remember the smiling, happy dad from the photograph.
I can’t breathe.
I need to get out of here.
“I have to go. Sorry,” I tell Tessa and stand up.
Dad’s brother looks at me, surprised—I didn’t even realize he was giving his eulogy. I glance at the photograph one last time, hoping to forever remember that smile, and I rush outside.
My heels echo obscenely as people murmur.
I push the heavy door open and step outside, and almost slip. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Mother Nature got the message. While we were inside, the sky darkened, and it started raining.
I rub my arms, huddled under the awning. I should call a cab. I’m not even sure where I’d go, but I can’t bury another significant man in my life.
Tessa will understand. She will take care of everything. She will be upset, and remind me of my inappropriate actions for the rest of our lives, but I’m putting myself first.
I’m not doing what everyone expects of me anymore. Fuck that.
The hinges creak, and the door closes with a thud again. A large black umbrella snaps open above me.
My knees buckle. I don’t have to look to know who is shielding me from the rain. I recognize the subtle masculine scent, the softness of his coat, the warmth of his body.
And I’m too tired to fight it at the moment.
I look to the side, and the well breaks. Holding the umbrella above us, Xander wraps one arm around me, stroking my hair gently, letting me soak his shirt.
He doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, a sentry to my grief. A solid pillar to rely on in my darkest moment.
I don’t know how long we stand there while I grieve my father and this relationship, but eventually the door is open, and people file out.
Xander moves to step back. “I’ll—”
“Stay,” I blurt, gripping the lapels of his coat. “I can’t do this—”
“Okay. I’m here.” He nods and steps behind me, holding the umbrella as I accept the condolences from people who knew my father.
“I’m sorry I told him to come.” Saar hugs me.
“It’s okay.” I hold her for a bit longer, and then do the same with Celeste and Lily. In the sea of Dad’s acquaintances, these are the people I want around.
And the man standing behind me, a silent guard to my pain.
It’s ironic that my ex-husband holds an umbrella above me while Tessa’s ex lingers in the doorway, keeping his distance.
“I guess you found your gentleman with an umbrella,” Tessa says.
Gentleman perhaps.
But no longer mine.
Once everyone is gone, Xander puts his hand on the small of my back and leads me away.
“I got something for you,” he says, walking toward his car.
I don’t even question the fact that he is not my ride. “I hope it’s not another island.”
He chuckles, pulls me to him, and kisses my crown. The whole thing is so instinctive, so us, so normal… it spreads pain through my chest all over again.
He opens the door of his Lambo, and I slide in.
He rounds the car and gets behind the wheel. From behind the seats, he pulls something out and then sets it in my lap.
A box of Zinfandel. Not a premium vintage. Not an organic version. Six bottles of a cheap brand he drank with me that night we talked about our birthdays.
“Thank you.” I sniffle.
“I know I’m the last person you wanted to see today, but I needed to make sure you’re alright.”
“I’m not.”
He reaches over and takes the box from my lap, shoving it behind the seats. Then he reaches again and buckles me up. His scent invades my senses. It would be so easy to get lost in him. To escape the pain in his arms.
He doesn’t retreat to his side, but lingers, his gaze on me, full of compassion and sadness.
He tucks a strand behind my ear. “I wish I could do something, but I learned recently that grief is a beast I can’t conquer.”
He’s been grieving. Us?
“Imagine when you get a double-whammy. Lucky me.” In my head, the self-deprecating nonsense made more sense.
Out loud, floating between us, it only deepens the wounds, reminding us of our own loss.
Xander tenses and withdraws to his side. The loss of his warmth is staggering. I hate that he doesn’t joke, doesn’t lighten up the mood.
The absence of our usual banter is so loud. I hate that with our relationship, he lost that part of himself. Or perhaps he wants to respect my grief.
I hate how familiar and strange this encounter is.
I’m tired of hating and grieving.
Xander starts the engine. “Where should I take you?”
The raindrops slide down the windshield glass, the life outside the car loud and hurried. I should go to the bistro where we’re holding the wake, but I need the silence and safety of this car.
Not because I grew to like the car.
Because, despite all the pain, the driver gives me more comfort than anyone else ever could.
“Could you just drive for a while?”
“Of course.”
And he does. I slouch in the seat, letting my thoughts wander. We drive in silence. I sob for a moment, then I close my eyes, then I watch the traffic.
All the while, Xander drives me around without a word. And I feel safe, sad, and spent. Until the silence feels suffocating.
“Say something,” I snap, shocking myself.
Xander whips his head to me, bewildered.
“Distract me,” I add.
He swirls the car into a parking garage and finds a spot on an abandoned level. I don’t even know where we are, or how long we have driven.
Xander taps his fingers on the wheel. “Lottie moved to Paris to learn to paint. Dad is pissed.”
I chuckle, sad I won’t know these little tidbits anymore. “I’m sure the experience will change her.”
“I’m not sure if she’ll learn how to paint, but she’s definitely having fun with her art teacher.” He shrugs, and I chuckle.
“Well, that’s an invaluable experience.”
“I don’t know, she is my little sister; I would prefer her to join a convent.”
“That’s discriminatory.”
“Not really. For all I care, all women can join a convent.”
He groans, looking away, the tension sneaking back between us. On some pitiful, pathetic level, I’m glad he doesn’t want another woman.
Jesus. How are we ever going to find closure?
“Thank you for returning Pitt and Clooney.” I play with the hem of my skirt, the weight between us growing.
“Fuck, Cora, I’m sorry I kept them.”
“Thank God they were not in our prenup.” I smile.
“Yeah.” He chuckles and looks at me.
Really looks at me—the way he used to. With that same raw hunger, the fierce admiration that always made my knees weak. Like I matter. Like he wants me.
Something sparks between us—electric and familiar. It jolts through me—unwanted, but unstoppable. That reckless, consuming pull that never asked permission. The kind we never could resist. Not even when I tried.