Chapter 14
The Package
Of all the packages she could’ve received at the cabin, her dad’s ashes were the last thing she’d expected.
How had she not even thought about the fact someone had to collect his cremated ashes at some point?
A wave of dizziness had washed over her as she’d signed for it.
She thought she thanked the courier before shutting the door in his face, but she couldn’t be sure.
She stared down at the box.
Pleasant Rest Funeral Home and Crematorium
Warning: Human Remains
The box was lighter than she would expect for human remains.
She supposed they were ash, but still. Her dad, the man often larger than life, with his bespectacled face and graying beard, his love of all things loons, his natural ability to make anyone laugh with a corny joke; how had the entirety of her dad been distilled into a lightweight box no heavier than his favorite case of beer?
Distantly, she was aware of Owen somewhere in the cabin. The heavy tread of his boots against the wooden floors thumped from nearby. Then she felt the slightest bit of warmth through the chill that had overtaken her body.
“Are you OK? Who was at the door?”
She tore her gaze away from the package to look at Owen. A crease appeared on his forehead as he studied her.
“It’s Dad,” she said.
She blinked back tears that threatened to fall as she uttered the words.
She would not cry, not now, at least. Not in front of Owen.
She already felt vulnerable, something she never allowed herself to be.
So she did what she did best. She shoved all the broken shards of grief cutting away at the inside of her chest back into the box they’d escaped from.
Then, for good measure, she slapped an extra piece of tape across the seam on top.
Ava forced her shoulders to relax and took a deep breath. When she felt in control again, she placed the package on the dining room table to deal with later.
“Alright. Where were we? You needed me to vacuum, right?”
Owen stared at her in confusion.
She ignored it and pressed on. “You asked me to vacuum under the step. Let’s get back to it.”
She walked past Owen to get the vacuum out of the hallway closet. A tug at her wrist stopped her. Owen’s warm fingers pressed against the pulse in her wrist, thawing a little more of the chill wrapped around her.
“Forget about the stairs. Ava, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said. She looked past his face, focusing on the pattern of the wallpaper behind him. If she saw the warmth of his coffee brown eyes, the concern, she knew she’d crumble. But she didn’t want to do that. Not now.
So she broke his hold on her wrist and kept walking. “I’ll just get that vacuum,” she said.
Owen didn’t let her get too far.
His arm wrapped around her waist from behind, pulling her body flush against his chest. She looked down at his arm banded around her, tight and secure.
His chest sturdy at her back, like he was willing to shield her from any hurt that may come her way.
And then his jaw pressed to her temple, and against her better judgement, she relaxed in his hold.
“You don’t have to be fine. Not around me,” he murmured, his warm breath fanning over her ear.
Wrapped up in Owen’s familiarity, she allowed herself to crack open the box she’d packed away deep in her mind. The box labeled Dad. Just for a moment.
And then the first sob burst out of her, followed by another.
Owen urged her to turn around, and she sank into his chest. The sobs were so guttural, coming from so deep within, she wouldn’t recognize herself if she’d been outside her body.
They burned on their way up, leaving her throat ragged and weak.
Tears fell in a steady stream from the corners of her eyes, like a leaky faucet she couldn’t shut off, soaking his shirt with her grief.
Words swelled inside her, demanding to be said aloud instead of tucked deep in her mind, ignored.
“I've been avoiding Dad's office,” she confessed. “I've been in his bedroom and every other room in the cabin but can't seem to bring myself to enter his office. I know it’s going to smell like him. Like old books and tobacco. He always smelled like the open pages of the books he was reading.”
Owen said nothing, but his grip tightened across her back, and his fingers flexing where he’d woven them into her hair. She should want to break from his intimate hold, push him away because she no longer had the right to seek comfort in his arms. But she didn’t. Couldn’t.
“I should've come back,” she said. “I should've been here. I should've known him better and not been so selfish. I should’ve been a better daughter. Did you know he was a substitute at the high school? How did he have time for that when he taught at the University full time? I learned that from a stranger, not even from my own dad.”
Owen rested his chin on the top of her head.
“I didn't. But I know your dad loved this community, and he also loved you,” he said against her hair.
She sniffled and buried her head against his shoulder.
“I don't think I can do this,” she said.
“Do what?”
“This. Everything. The interview and the cabin. I’m overwhelmed. I know there's important paperwork and financials I haven’t even considered yet, but I can't do it.”
Owen’s hand ran soothingly up and down her back. She concentrated on the rhythmic movement and willed her tears to slow.
“You can do this. And you will. You’ve Ava fucking Hanson. You can do anything you set your mind to. Except, maybe not fix stairs,” he said.
A soft snort burst from her, even as her mind refuted him. But she kept it to herself and allowed herself a few more minutes of selfishness cradled in his arms.