CHAPTER forty-nine #10
When more people came by the house to pay their respects, Mom couldn't even get up to greet them. She just nodded from the couch, red-eyed, apologizing in a whisper. Sam did most of the talking. I hovered, trying to fill the gaps, trying to pretend I wasn't watching Mom fall apart in slow motion.
By the time everyone left, Mom's wine glass was half-empty again — more than she ever drinks. I didn't say a thing. Today wasn't the day to remind her about moderation.
She cried again on my shoulder before bed, whispering Dad's name like it was the only word she remembered. It tore something open inside me watching her break like that — like grief was reopening old wounds with sharper teeth.
I stayed with her until her breaths evened out and her eyelids finally stopped fluttering.
When she finally drifted off, I slipped an arm under her and lifted her carefully, carrying her to her bedroom.
I lay her down gently and pull the blanket over her.
She looks smaller when she sleeps — worn out, fragile in a way she never lets us see.
A tear track glistens on her cheek. I wipe it with my thumb, the way she used to do for me.
Then I step out and pull her door closed, soft as I can.
I lean against the hallway wall, exhaling a long, shaky breath.
God. This year is worse.
Worse than last year. Worse than the year before.
Mom's falling apart faster, and I don't know how to fix it.
I don't know how to fix her.
I make my way to my room, shutting the door behind me. The quiet hits me hard — too heavy, too cold.
The house feels wrong without Dad.
It has for five years.
But tonight, it feels like someone carved that hole deeper.
I collapse onto my bed, sitting there for a beat before reaching for the small framed photo on my nightstand. Me and Dad on the ice after my first peewee championship. I'm ten, grinning so wide my face looks like it might split. Dad's arm is around me, his smile bigger than mine.
I stare at it until my vision blurs.
"Hey, Dad," I whisper, voice cracking instantly.
The silence in the room is suffocating, and my chest pulls tight. I press my thumb over the edge of the frame, tracing Dad's face without thinking.
"I'm trying," I manage, swallowing hard. "I'm really trying down here."
My throat burns. My eyes sting.
"You know I skate for you, right?"
The words come out uneven, breathy — like they're fighting their way out.
"Every game day... every time I lace up.
.. it's for you. Because you were the one who taught me how to skate.
You're the reason I ever touched a stick in the first place.
You were there at every practice, every early morning rink time, every stupid tournament in the middle of nowhere.
You believed in me before I knew how to believe in myself.
So now—every shift I take, every pass, every goal—I do it like you're still in the stands watching.
Like I'm still that little kid looking up at you, trying to make you proud. "
A tear slips down my jaw before I even realize I'm crying.
"I keep pretending it gets easier," I whisper. "But it doesn't. Not really. It still feels like someone just ripped you out of my chest and left this stupid... fucking hole."
I choke on a harsh breath. My vision blurs again.
"I just... I want to talk to you," I whisper, my voice barely holding together. "I want your stupid advice. I want to tell you everything you've missed."
I swallow hard, the words scraping out of me.
"Dad... I finally got the girl."
A shaky laugh slips out. "Caroline's my girlfriend. Finally. Took me long enough, right?"
I rub my thumb over the frame, breath hitching.
"It didn't come easy, though. I messed up. Bad. And if you were here, I know you would've knocked some sense into me before I made a complete idiot of myself. You always saw right through me. Always knew when I was about to screw something up."
My voice cracks again.
"But... I'm trying. I'm really trying to be better for her."
Another weak, broken laugh escapes me. "Guess miracles do happen, huh?"
I lean back against the headboard, letting my head fall against it — a dull thud — and more tears spill out, hot and fast, before I can blink them away.
"And Mom—"
I laugh, short and humorless.
"Mom's not okay, Dad. She pretends she is, but she's not. And I'm trying, I swear I'm trying, but I don't know if I'm doing it right. I don't know how to be what she needs."
The words spill out of me like something breaking open.
"And Sam—she's getting sick again. Not like before... I hope not like before. But she's not telling Mom because she doesn't want her to worry."
I wipe my face with the heel of my hand.
"She's trying so hard to be strong. But she's still just a kid. She still needs you."
I hold the picture tighter — too tight — like if I grip it hard enough, maybe I can climb through it and go back.
"I don't know how to do this without you," I whisper. "I really fucking don't."
My voice collapses into a sob before I can stop it — ugly, raw, painful. I press the picture to my chest like it's the only thing holding me together.
"I miss you," I rasp. "I miss you so damn much it feels like my ribs are cracking."
My shoulders shake, and I let out a long, broken breath that's been stuck in me for years. "Even when it hurts. Even when I don't know what I'm doing... I'm still trying. For you."
The room stays silent, but something in the air shifts — a quiet stillness that feels almost like a hand on my shoulder.
It doesn't fix anything.
Doesn't make the grief smaller.
But for a second, the emptiness feels a little less endless.
And I hold the picture tighter, letting myself break. Because for once, I'm not pretending I'm strong.
Not tonight.
Not without him.
CHAPTER forty-seven
CAROLINE
The ladder wobbles beneath me like it's personally offended by my life choices.
"Okay... okay... steady," I whisper, gripping the sides like my life depends on it—because, well, it kind of does.
The metal creaks, one rung groaning louder than my soul during exams. "Seriously, why am I doing this again?"
Right. Because I'm an idiot in love.
The plastic bag in my hand swings dangerously as I climb another step.
It's packed with comfort supplies—two pints of Giuseppe's Italian ice (his cherry, my pistachio.
.. which are probably melting into soup by now because I climb like a baby sloth), a can of whipped cream, a couple bags of chips, and two cans of Dr Pepper.
God knows why he likes that drink. It tastes like carbonated cough syrup, but whatever—if it comforts him, into the bag it goes.
The ladder wobbles again.
"Oh, come on!" I hiss, pausing to glare at it. "You had one job—don't murder me."
One more step.
My foot slips, my heart free-falls, and I let out a strangled noise somewhere between a gasp and a squeak. My other hand flies out, gripping the cold metal side bar of the ladder just in time.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" I whisper-shout, chest heaving. "If I die doing this, someone better tell my parents it was for love. Actually, no—don't. They'll just say I deserved it."
I should've never cut off that bridge between our rooms three years ago. If I'd known Future Me would be climbing this deathtrap ladder at 9 p.m., I would've left it alone.
Seriously... what was I thinking?
I adjust my grip and start climbing again, muttering under my breath.
"I could've just used the damn front door like a normal person. But nooo, Caroline just had to be considerate—'Don't wake Charlene, don't wake Sam,'—guess who's about to wake up the entire neighborhood when this deathtrap collapses?"
Another step. Almost there.
The balcony's only a few feet away now, the glow from Zach's room faintly visible through the curtains. He's definitely still awake—I just know it.
He's probably sitting there alone, pretending to be fine like he always does. Acting strong for everyone else when he's also still hurting.
My chest tightens.
"That's why you're doing this," I whisper to myself. "Because he takes care of everyone but himself. And tonight, someone needs to take care of him."
The ladder creaks again in what sounds like mockery, and I groan. "Yeah, yeah, I'm almost done, you unholy tin noodle. Just hang on for two more minutes!"
Finally, I haul myself onto the balcony, landing on my knees with all the grace of a dying frog. I set the plastic bag down, brush my hair out of my face, and whisper a shaky laugh.
"Never again. I'm officially cutting this off my bucket list. Next time, I'm knocking like a civilized person."
I brush off my jeans, tug Zach's old hoodie tighter around me—the one I borrowed from his closet ages ago and never gave back because it smells like him and feels like home.
I tiptoe to the glass door and knock softly.
Nothing.
He doesn't hear me.
I try the handle, not expecting anything—just wishing. It turns.
My breath catches.
He still leaves this door unlocked? Is it for me?
Something warm and achy blooms in my chest, hitting so fast it pricks tears behind my eyes. I swallow hard, forcing them back.
Not now, Caroline. This isn't the time to get mushy and emotional.
I take a slow breath and push the door open. It creaks—sharp in the stillness—and Zach's head jerks up at the sound.
And my heart just... shatters.
He's sitting on the edge of his bed, shoulders caved in like the weight of the world is sitting there with him. His eyes are red and glassy, swollen from crying, and in his hands—gripped so tightly his knuckles are white—is the picture frame he always keeps on his nightstand.
The photo of him and his dad after winning the peewee championship.
His first big win.
The one he was so proud of.
There are fresh tear tracks on his cheeks, his expression twisted in a kind of grief that's too old and too deep for someone our age to be carrying.
My hand flies to my mouth, the plastic bag sliding right out of my grip and thudding to the floor. I don't even hear it. I just move.