21. Willow
21
WILLOW
T hree Weeks Later
"You know, your father wore this jean jacket every single day when we first started dating," my Mother hums, holding up an acid jean jacket with neon green paint peppered along the sleeves and torso.
"No he didn't!" I giggle, crawling across the bed and grabbing the jacket out of her arms.
"He called it his lucky charm," she agrees, wiping the tears from her eyes as she nods in agreement. "He was wearing it the day he met me and then insisted that I only stayed for the jacket."
"Please tell me, you did not!" I say, the smell of mothballs and tobacco wafts off of the jacket.
My mother nods sheepishly as she pulls a pair of windbreaker pants out of the bag, smiling to herself.
"What can I say, it was the 80s!" Mom laughs, the sound warm but fragile. She runs her fingers over the windbreaker pants, tracing the neon stripes down the sides. "Your father thought he looked like a rock star in these. Remember how he'd wear them to your soccer games?"
"Oh god, how could I forget?" I groan, but I'm smiling too. "He'd cheer so loud the referee once threatened to kick him out."
"He was always your biggest fan, Willow."
I press the jean jacket to my chest, letting the familiar scent wash over me. Nine months since the funeral, and this is the first time we've been able to really go through his things. The house that had felt too empty, too quiet, now seems filled with his presence as we unpack boxes that had been hastily stored away.
"I never thought I'd be ready for this," I admit, watching Mom carefully fold a faded concert t-shirt. "Selling the house... going through his stuff..."
Mom pauses, looking around the bedroom. "I wasn't sure either. But it feels right now, doesn't it?"
I nod, surprised to find that the tears aren't coming. Instead, there's a gentle warmth spreading through my chest as I hold the ridiculous jacket that meant so much to him.
For the longest time, I avoided this—his closet, his old records, the dusty boxes filled with keepsakes from a life that ended too soon. It always felt like stepping too close to a wound that had barely begun to scab over. But today, with the warm hum of my mother's laughter filling the empty spaces of the house, I don't feel the ache quite as sharply.
We sift through the rest of the bag together. A worn leather wallet, still holding a crumpled receipt from our favorite diner. A mixtape labeled For the Coolest Girl I Know —Mom's, of course. A Polaroid of him, younger, wilder, grinning like he had the whole world at his feet.
I swallow the lump in my throat, holding up the picture so my mom can see. "He looks so happy."
"He was," she murmurs, brushing her thumb over his face. "And you know what? I think he'd want us to be, too."
My mother reaches deeper into the box and pulls out a small velvet pouch. "Oh," she breathes, her fingers trembling slightly as she loosens the drawstring. A silver bracelet slides into her palm, three charms dangling from the delicate chain.
"I gave him this for our tenth anniversary," she explains, voice soft with memory. "A charm for each of us—him, me, and you."
I lean closer to see the tiny figures: a guitar for Dad, a book for Mom, and a small willow branch that I realize is meant to represent me.
“It was too small, so he kept it in his pocket,” she smiles, sliding the bracelet into her pocket. “You don’t mind if I take this little memento?”
“Nope,” I shake my head. “You were the love of his life.”
She looks down at her worn out Nike sneakers and smiles. “He was the love of my life as well, Willow. The best guy I have ever known.”
My chest tightens. In the past, I would have lashed out, insisting that you don’t just walk away from the love of your life. But something has shifted. I’ve shifted. There’s no need to keep punishing her for the choices she made. I understand my mom now. For every bright smile and teasing wink, there’s a shadow lurking beneath the surface, always threatening to pull her under. And now that I see that— really see it—I can’t bring myself to hate her anymore. Especially since she is the only parent I have left, and Damien made me realize how precious that is.
“Okay,” she sighs, scooting across the bed and grabbing my hand in hers. “Enough with the sentimental semantics. What are you doing for Damien’s birthday tonight? Anything that needs me to be out of the house?”
“Mom,” I screech, my cheeks heating up to a ruby red.
“I have to ask!” She says, not allowing me to pull back my hands in embarrassment. “Especially after the three hour marathon you all did in the living room!”
“Mom!”
“You are not a quiet girl, Willow, but what can I expect,” she chuckles. “Neither am I.”
“Oh my God.” I cover my face with my hands and scream into my palms. “Kill me now!”
“Or invest in a gag ball.” My mother mutters and I immediately hop up off the bed.
“Alright! I’m leaving!” I pant, moving towards the door.
“Okay, okay. I’ll stop!” My mother chuckles, holding her hands up in surrender. “But seriously what is the plan?”
I pause in the doorway, still mortified but managing to roll my eyes. "Dinner at his favorite sushi place, then probably a movie back at his place. Lowkey. No gag balls required."
Mom smirks, but mercifully lets the joke die. "Sounds perfect. You get him a gift yet? "
"That’s actually why I came here," I admit, turning back toward the half-unpacked boxes. "I wanted to find something of Dad’s to give him. Something meaningful."
Mom tilts her head, considering. “Really, why?”
“Damien and Dad got really close towards the end of his life. He really liked Damien, mostly because he played hockey, but he also thought he was good for me."
"He was right," Mom says simply, and I feel my heart swell a little at the easy approval. “Go check in that box, there are some things in there that may be a good present for Dames.”
I walk over to the unlabelled box that sits on the dresser, “Wait, you called him Dames? When did you two get on a nickname level?”
“Ever since he made it his life mission to get me back into your good graces,” she smiles. “You see, Damien has the right idea, by getting the parents on his side.”
I snort as I lift the flaps of the box and start sifting through the contents. A stack of old receipts, a pocket knife with a chipped wooden handle, a book of crossword puzzles half-filled in with Dad’s cramped handwriting. My fingers brush against something cold and metallic at the bottom.
I pull out a watch.
It’s simple—silver with a navy blue face, the leather strap worn soft from years of use. I turn it over in my hands, running my thumb over the back. There, faint but still visible, are the initials DW engraved into the metal.
“DW?” I murmur aloud, frowning. “Who’s that?”
Mom leans over to look, and her face softens. “Daphne Walters,” she says, her voice warm with memory. “That was your grandmother’s maiden name.”
I blink up at her. “Dad had her initials on his watch?”
Mom nods. “She gave it to him when he got his first job out of college. Told him time was the most valuable thing you could ever give someone.”
I trace the letters with my fingertip, my throat tightening. Time. That was something Dad could never get was enough time.
I take a deep breath, closing my fingers around the watch. “I think I want Damien to have this.”
Mom studies me for a moment before nodding. “I think your father would like that.”
I smile, pocketing the watch carefully. "Alright," I say, standing and dusting off my jeans. "I have a birthday to get to."
Mom grins. "I will meet you back at the house. Have fun. But remember—thin walls, Willow."
I groan, heading straight for the door before she can say another word. "Goodbye, Mother!"
Her laughter follows me down the hall.
The heavy clouds from earlier have cleared, giving way to a crisp evening sky. I make my way to my Dad’s old car that Cast wants to sell but I think it still has another two years in it before I will allow him to buy me a new car. Dad’s car—a ten-year-old sedan that has seen better days—waits faithfully in the driveway. The silver paint is dulled with age, and there's a small dent in the rear bumper from that time I misjudged the distance to a concrete pillar, the first time I learned how to drive with Dad .
Normally, Vincent and Cast would insist on bodyguards and chauffeurs but Mom convinced them that it was fine and we did not need the added stress of surveillance as we packed up Dad’s room. And despite Damien also demanding security, Mom put on her I don’t give a fuck voice, putting all three of my guys in their place, which I totally need to learn how to do because it was equally scary and amazing.
I slide into the driver's seat, the familiar creak of worn leather greeting me. Dad's watch is a comforting weight in my pocket, and I touch it briefly, like a talisman. The restaurant is only fifteen minutes away, but I want to get there early to make sure everything is perfect for Damien's surprise. I've been planning this night all week—the private corner table with the view of the koi pond, the special sake I pre-ordered, and the watch that I will carefully wrap in handmade paper.
The engine rumbles to life on the second try, and I pull out onto the main road, humming along to the radio. Vincent’s favorite song— Death of a Bachelor by Panic! at the Disco—fills the car, the familiar melody curling around me like a warm embrace.
I drum my fingers against the steering wheel, letting the rhythm carry me forward. The evening air seeps in through the cracked open window, and for the first time in months, I feel light. At peace.
That's when I feel it—the slight stutter in my chest. Not pain exactly, more like hesitation, as if my mechanical heart has momentarily forgotten its rhythm. A cold wave of dread washes over me.
"Not now," I whisper, tapping my sternum gently with trembling fingers.
The light ahead turns green, and I accelerate, trying to ignore the faint fluttering beneath my ribs. Another stutter follows, stronger this time, like a record skipping, followed by an alarming whirring sound I've never heard before. My vision blurs at the edges, the streetlights smearing into long streaks of yellow against the darkening sky.
I try to pull over, my fingers gripping the wheel so tight my knuckles go white. Sweat beads on my forehead despite the chill in the air. The car swerves slightly, earning me an angry honk from the vehicle behind. The display on my dashboard swims before my eyes—I can't make out the street names anymore.
The third stutter comes with a jolt that makes my whole body seize. It's different this time—a white-hot spark that seems to ricochet through my chest cavity, setting off alarms in every nerve ending. I gasp, the air suddenly too thick to breathe. My heart isn't just stuttering now; it's screaming.
My foot jams down involuntarily—on the gas, not the brake. The car lurches forward with frightening speed.
"No, no, no," I rasp, fighting to regain control, but my limbs won't respond properly.
The world tilts sideways, reality slowing to a terrible, crystalline clarity. I see everything: the horrified face of a pedestrian diving out of the way; the flash of red tail lights ahead growing larger at an impossible rate; the glint of Dad's watch as it slides from my pocket onto the passenger seat.
There's the squeal of tires against asphalt, the blare of a horn that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere, the sickening crunch of metal folding against metal. The airbag explodes in my face with stunning force—a white supernova that tastes like chemicals and dust. My body is thrown forward, then back, a rag-doll in the hands of physics.
Glass rains around me in a beautiful, terrible constellation of shards that catch the streetlights like diamonds. Something warm trickles down my face. The mechanical heart in my chest gives one massive convulsion, then settles into an erratic, fading rhythm—like a music box winding down.
And then, nothing.