Chapter Thirty-Eight
THE GOODBYE I DIDN’T EXPECT
Cole
The church is full, but it doesn’t feel crowded. Just heavy. The air feels thick, almost suffocating.
I sit in the second row with my mom, dressed in my Class A uniform—black coat, badge polished, tie perfectly knotted.
It’s stiff, formal, too hot under the collar.
My ribs still ache when I breathe too deep, and my arm’s in a sling because my shoulder won’t stop protesting every time I move.
But none of that hurts as much as the emptiness inside me.
Brennan’s parents are just ahead, sitting together but looking like they’re on separate islands. His mom’s shoulders shake silently. His dad stares straight ahead, like maybe if he doesn’t blink, none of this is real.
People keep filing in. Fellow firefighters in dress blues. Some of the guys from dispatch. Old friends from the academy.
I glance toward the back.
I keep doing that.
Waiting to see her.
Andi said she’d be here.
Every time the door opens, I flinch. Every time it’s not her, something tightens in my chest.
The priest starts speaking. The music plays. A slideshow of photos clicks past on the projector screen—Brennan as a kid, Brennan at the station, Brennan grinning with his arm slung around someone else’s shoulders. Always smiling. Always in motion.
It feels unreal. Like any second he’s going to burst through the back doors, late and loud, offering some dumb excuse about why he’s late this time.
Instead, they call my name.
I wasn’t sure I could do this. The captain asked if I wanted to speak, and I said yes before my brain caught up. Now I’m here, my legs stiff and trembling as I rise to my feet.
My mom squeezes my good hand before I step past her.
The walk to the podium feels a hundred miles long. I grip the edges when I get there, just to stay steady.
“Uh, hey.” My voice comes out rough, shaky. I clear my throat. “Most of you knew Brennan the same way I did. Loud. Loyal. And impossible to shut up.”
There’s a soft ripple of laughter. I press on.
“We were partners. In the truck, on calls, in life. He was the guy who always had my back. Who made every shift feel lighter. Who could be knee-deep in something awful and still crack a joke that made you want to throw something at him.”
I pause, trying to steady my breath. It doesn’t work because my heart’s beating way too fast. I press on.
“I don’t remember the first day we met. Not really. I just remember that one day he wasn’t there, and the next day he was—and then it was like he’d always been. Like he was a permanent fixture. A given. The idea that he’s not anymore… I still can’t make sense of it.”
The room goes still.
A lump rises in my throat. I swallow hard.
“I’ve run into a lot of fires. A lot of wreckage. But nothing prepared me for this. Nothing prepares you to lose the person who knew all your tells, who filled the silences without asking, who made the job—and life—more bearable.”
I glance down. My hands are shaking.
“I don’t know how to live in a world where Brennan doesn’t exist. But I do know he wouldn’t want me to sit in that pain forever. He’d want me to laugh again. To show up. To live.”
I look up. My eyes scan the crowd.
And then I see her.
Back row, near the aisle.
Andi.
She’s in a black dress, her hair’s pulled back, and her hands are twisted in her lap. Her eyes are locked on me, wide and wet, and for a second—just one—I forget everything else. Because she came.
I close the speech the best I can. I don’t remember the words. I just remember walking back to my seat on shaking legs, and my mom reaching for me.
The service continues. I hear almost none of it.
I keep thinking about Andi. How she waited until I was already up there to come in. How she hasn’t come over.
After the final prayer, everyone stands. People start moving toward the front to pay their respects to Brennan’s family. Hushed voices. Tears. Hugs that don’t fix anything.
I glance back again.
Andi’s still there.
I break away from my mom with a soft squeeze of her shoulder and make my way to the back of the room.
She sees me coming and stands, brushing her hands down her sides like she’s trying to smooth out her nerves.
“Hey,” I say softly.
“Hey.”
“I wasn’t sure you were coming.”
“I wasn’t either.”
Her voice is so quiet I almost miss it.
I study her face. Something’s off. Her eyes are distant, like she’s here but not really here.
“You want to come back with me?” I ask. “Sit for a bit? We can go get food after. Or go home and crash. I’m not picky. Just… don’t leave yet.”
She hesitates. Then shakes her head.
“I can’t.”
The breath leaves my chest like a punch.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I can’t do this, Cole. I can’t pretend I’m not terrified every second. That I didn’t sit in that hospital waiting room wondering if you’d ever wake up again.”
I take a step closer, jaw tight. “I did wake up.”
“I know. But next time? What if you don’t?” Her voice breaks. “I love you. I didn’t mean to, but I do. And it hurts. It hurts so much I feel like I’m back in that hospital waiting to hear they’re gone. My parents. You. I can’t do it again.”
She presses a hand to her mouth, like she’s trying to stop the words. Or the sob.
I’m frozen.
“Andi…”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “But it’s easier to let go now than keep falling deeper and wait for it to all come crashing down.”
She lifts up on her toes and kisses my cheek, the same way she did the day she left my apartment.
Then she walks past me, out the doors, into the gray afternoon.
And I just stand there.
Destroyed.
All over again.
A few hours later, I’m at O’Malley’s with a half-empty glass of whiskey and a group of guys who don’t know what to do with their grief except drink it down in slow sips.
Trey’s telling a story about Brennan climbing out a second-story window at a bachelor party because he didn’t want to pay the tab.
“Swore he was being ‘fiscally responsible,’” Trey says, raising his glass. “Idiot still left his jacket inside with his wallet.”
We all laugh—loud and sudden.
It’s good to be here. Loud voices. Glasses clinking. Distraction. I’m surrounded by guys who get it. We’ve all lost something and there’s a strange sense of comfort in that. Like sharing it makes it easier somehow.
We continue swapping stories. Brennan and the donut contest. Brennan doing karaoke after two beers. Brennan sneaking glitter into the captain’s boots for a prank that backfired.
And I let myself laugh. Let myself be here.
Because I can’t think about Andi right now.
I can’t.
If I let myself feel that grief on top of this one, I might not get back up.
So I raise my glass with the rest of them, and I toast Brennan, and I keep my smile steady.
Even if everything inside me is breaking apart.