CHAPTER forty-nine #9
"Angel," I say quietly, "we should still get you checked out. Just to be safe. You've been getting sick a lot, and... I don't know. I just...I want a doctor to actually look at you properly—tests, bloodwork, whatever they need to do. I just need to know you're really okay."
I'm bracing for her to argue, roll her eyes, something.
But she doesn't.
"Don't worry," she says softly. "I already made an appointment. Monday afternoon, right when I get back to Miami."
Relief slams into me so fast I actually choke out, "Really?"
My voice cracks like I'm going through puberty again. "Angel, that's—God, that's good. That's really good."
She smiles a little, then her face sobers.
"Just... please don't tell Mom."
"Why not?"
She hesitates only a second before speaking.
"She's already having a rough time," Sam murmurs. "The last few days, she's been crying when she thinks I'm not listening. You know how she gets around this time of year... when Dad's anniversary is close."
My chest tightens instantly. I swallow hard, feeling that familiar heaviness settle in.
"She's barely holding it together, Zachy," Sam says softly. "I just... don't want to give her anything else to overthink or freak out about. Not today. I want her to focus on Dad, on us being here. She doesn't need extra stress when there's probably nothing wrong with me anyway."
She's right. Mom clings by a thread every year when Dad's anniversary comes around. One worry is all it takes to tip her over.
"If the doctor finds anything important, I'll tell her."
I exhale slowly. "...Okay. I won't tell her."
Sam leans her forehead lightly against my shoulder, a silent little thank-you.
"Let me go with you then," I say. "I want to be there for you."
She immediately shakes her head. "No. I'm doing this one alone."
I pull back a little. "Why?"
She shrugs, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Because if you come, you'll hover. And then you'll worry.
And then you'll start asking a million questions, and they'll have to wheel you out for stress.
" She gives a tiny smile. "And I don't want that.
I don't want anyone fussing over me. It's just a checkup, Zachy.
Not a big emergency. I'll be in and out. "
I open my mouth to argue, but she hits me with that look — the firm, don't-even-think-about-it one she inherited straight from Mom.
"...Fine, fine." I lift my hands in surrender. "I won't go. And I won't tell Mom," I add, giving her a look of my own, "if you promise to tell me first. Whatever the doctor says. Don't make me chase you down."
She snorts. "I will. Promise."
I slide an arm around her shoulders and pull her gently into my side, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
For a moment, she just melts into the hug — my little sister, strong as hell, but still someone I want to protect from everything.
And I hold her a little tighter.
*****
The sky looks bruised—gray, heavy, like even the clouds understand what day it is.
The cemetery is quiet except for the soft rustle of wind slipping through the trees. A few families are scattered around, visiting their own loved ones, but the whole place feels muted... respectful. Peaceful in the way only graveyards can be.
We walk the familiar path to Dad's spot. Sam's holding the bouquet she picked—white lilies and blue hydrangeas, his favorites. I'm carrying sunflowers because Mom said he always liked how "bright and loud" they were.
Caroline walks beside me, her fingers laced through mine. Her parents didn't come—she said that they stopped by an hour earlier to give my family privacy today.
Dad's tombstone comes into view, and my chest tightens. There are already several arrangements sitting there—fresh bouquets, little clusters of flowers carefully placed at the base.
It comforts me more than I expect. Dad still has people who remember him.
Still has people who loved him outside these three walls of our little family.
Mom kneels first, brushing away leaves like she's tidying up for him. Sam and I set our flowers down on each side, and for a moment, nobody says anything.
Mom places her fingertips on Dad's name, tracing each letter slowly.
"Hey, love," she whispers, her voice already trembling. "We're here. The kids and I."
She pushes herself back up to her feet, and Sam and I rise with her. We settle into place—Sam on her left, me on her right—like instinct, like muscle memory.
I slip an arm around her shoulders. She leans into me right away, the same way she always does on days like this, like she needs the reminder that we're still here... even if he isn't.
"You should see them now," she murmurs, "Sam's in college and... oh, Henry, you wouldn't believe how grown she is. She's not our little girl anymore." Her voice wavers. "She's smart, and kind, and she's trying so hard. You'd be so proud of her. I know you would."
Sam lets out a tiny breath, eyes glued to the ground, squeezing Mom's arm.
Mom's chin trembles.
"And Zach..." She laughs softly, but it breaks halfway through.
"He's doing everything you always said he would.
Playing amazing. Leading. Becoming exactly the man you were teaching him to be.
" She wipes at her cheek, frustrated when more tears fall.
"Every time I watch him skate, I think, 'God, Henry, you should be here for this.
' You should be cheering him on. You should be yelling at the refs with me. "
She tries to laugh again, but it crumples under the weight of her grief.
"I miss you every single day," she whispers, her shoulders trembling. "Every morning. Every night. It doesn't stop. I still sleep with your gray Gators shirt — the one you refused to throw away even when it had holes."
She lets out a shaky, wet laugh. "It still smells like you. Isn't that ridiculous? I... I just can't let it go. It's the only way I fall asleep most nights. Makes me feel like you're still next to me."
Sam starts crying quietly beside her.
I pull Mom a little closer, my hand firm on her shoulder, holding her up because she's barely standing on her own.
Mom sniffles hard and wipes her cheek, even though more tears spill immediately.
"Are you doing okay over there?" she murmurs, voice thin and breaking. "Are people treating you well? You never were good at keeping your mouth shut, so I'm sure you've made friends already."
She tries to laugh at her own joke, but it cracks into another sob.
"Oh, Henry," she chokes out, "why did you have to leave me so soon? Didn't you promise me you'd stay by my side until we were old and gray?"
Her words crumble as she goes on. "You were the one who sold me that dream. You were the one who said we'd sit on a porch somewhere at eighty, yelling at the birds and annoying the neighbors."
A rough, broken laugh slips out of her but dies quickly.
"I only agreed to marry you because you were so damn confident we'd get there," she says, voice shaking. "But you're not here now. You're not here fulfilling that promise, and I'm still..." She sucks in a breath that stutters. "I'm still trying to figure out how to do this without you."
She presses her hand flat against the stone as if trying to reach through it.
"I miss you so much," she whispers.
My throat closes up.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to breathe slow. I can't fall apart. Not when Mom's barely holding herself together.
Caroline steps closer, slipping her hand into mine. I grip it back, grateful, grounding myself. When I glance at her from the corner of my eye, she's quietly wiping her tears with a tissue she brought, trying not to draw attention to herself.
Sam lets out a tiny, shaky breath. "Hi, Dad," she whispers, voice wobbling. "I've been... um... trying really hard this year. Classes are insane, but I'm doing well. I'm trying to take care of Mom like you told me to."
She sniffles, wiping at her cheeks even though more tears fall.
"I miss you every day. I love you, Daddy. I hope you know that."
Silence spreads out around us. Heavy. Thick. The kind that drops into your lungs and stays there.
I swallow hard, my throat burning, and clear it enough to speak.
"Hey, Dad."
My voice comes out rough, embarrassingly rough, but I push through.
"We're... we're okay. Some days suck. Some days are... better. But we're doing our best."
Caroline squeezes my hand again. I squeeze back, letting the pressure steady me.
I look at the stone—his name, his birthdate, the date everything fell apart... and the small carving of a hockey stick Mom made them add because "he'd complain from heaven if they didn't."
"I hope I'm making you proud," I whisper, my voice breaking halfway through. "I hope I'm the man you wanted me to be."
My heart cinches so hard it feels like the air is punched from my lungs.
I clear my throat again, staring at his name like I'm trying to will him back.
"And don't worry about Mom and Sam. I've got them. Always."
I tighten my grip around Mom.
"I'll take care of them. I promise. Just like I told you I would."
My voice drops even lower, barely more than air.
"Love you, Dad."
As soon as the words leave my mouth, a gust of wind sweeps through the cemetery—stronger than the gentle breeze before, rustling the flowers, tugging at our clothes, brushing against the side of my face.
And for a second—just one second—it almost feels like he's here.
Watching us.
Still with us.
Still ours.
The rest of the day passes in a blur after that—quiet, heavy, the kind of silence that settles into the walls.
Later that night, the grief feels heavier.
Mom barely touched dinner. She stayed curled up on the couch with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, staring at nothing. She cried quietly for hours — the kind of crying that comes from a place so deep you can't stop it, even if you try.