Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
ETHAN
The thing about grief? It doesn’t wait until someone dies. It creeps in way before that. The first time they forget your birthday. Or miss a call. Or take too long to text back. It’s in the way their laugh gets weaker. That’s when it really starts. By the time the end comes, it’s just an echo.
I hadn’t cried since the night she passed.
I didn’t even have the time. Between the funeral arrangements, the flower orders, and picking between a dark gray or navy casket liner (like it mattered), I barely had time to breathe and come to an understanding of what just happened.
I just kept moving. Didn’t stop long enough to let it hit.
At least not until now. I guess flying over there makes everything real.
I drop into an empty seat near the gate, and the cold from it goes through my jeans.
The airport hums, that low and constant buzz of wheels, chatter, and boarding calls, all of it just blurs together.
Someone’s kid is crying three gates down.
I hear a coffee machine hissing somewhere behind me, as my phone buzzes.
Hannah
Her face fills the screen. Messy bun, tired eyes, sunlight spilling in through the kitchen window behind her.
The one over the sink with the crooked blind that she has told me a thousand times to fix.
God, she’s beautiful. “Hey,” I say, forcing a smile I hope looks real. Although I know I’m not fooling anyone.
“There he is, you left so early I couldn’t even say a proper goodbye,” she teases, voice soft. “Boarding soon?”
“I know, sorry. Didn’t want to wake you all up. They just called the armed forces,” I say as I glance at the crowd. Businessmen with Bluetooths, families wrangling strollers, the usual shuffle. She flips the camera. The girls are on the couch, a blanket fortress around them. “Say bye to Daddy!”
“Bye, Daddy! Love you!” two little voices yell in perfect chaos. I grin like an idiot. “Love you too, girls. Be good for Mom, okay?” They nod, giggling, hair sticking up in every direction. Hannah flips the camera back. “Text me when you land.”
“I will. Love you.”
“Love you more.” The screen goes dark. Just my reflection staring back at my tired eyes. I shove the phone into my pocket as I stand and stretch. My back pops. Coffee. I need coffee.
At the stand, I order a large black and, on impulse, grab a bag of Sour Patch Kids.
Comfort candy. Always has been, ever since high school.
Those bus rides with cracked lips and sugar-dusted fingers were the best. It’s funny how certain habits outlive entire versions of us. No matter how much time has passed.
Back at the gate, they’re already boarding my group.
I toss the candy in my backpack and fall into line.
The woman ahead of me smells like lavender and rain.
It’s a weird combination if you think about it.
The guy behind me is muttering about overhead bins.
I take a slow sip of the coffee, too hot, too bitter. It’s a good distraction.
The flight’s smoother than I expected. We take off in the rain, the heavy, drumming kind that turns everything outside the window into a smear of silver.
The engines roar, the nose tilts up, and the world drops away.
Then, we break through. The clouds crack open, and the light pours in.
It’s bright, the kind that makes you squint even behind sunglasses.
It’s always strange, that shift. One minute, you’re swallowed by weather; the next, you’re above it, flying in perfect calm while the storm keeps raging somewhere below.
I spend most of it with my AirPods in, bouncing between emails and notes for the upcoming site visit. Wi-Fi cuts in and out, but I keep typing like it matters, like keeping busy might trick my brain into thinking I’m okay.
A few routine responses:
Got it, thanks.
Will review when I land.
Looks good, just make sure the contractor double-checks the drainage specs.
The usual work language is efficient, bloodless, and safe. Everyone told me to take a few weeks off, but I can’t allow myself to do that. I’ll drown. I’ll be taking a few days once I’m in Tacoon, but that’s it.
I tweak a few documents and stare at the same spreadsheet for too long.
Sip coffee until it’s cold and burnt-tasting, the kind that sticks to the back of your throat.
The guy next to me is asleep, head back, mouth open.
Across the aisle, a woman flips through a paperback, her thumb tapping rhythmically at the corner of each page.
At some point, I flag down the flight attendant.
“Jack and Ginger, please.” She smiles politely, pours with practiced ease.
I’ll drink just one. Just enough to take the edge off.
The nerves, the sadness, everything in between, I don’t want to name.
It sits warm in my chest as I stare out the window at nothing, at the faint line of the horizon, the endless sky, and wonder why.
The ice clinks. The seatbelt sign dings. Someone laughs two rows up. I close my laptop, lean my head back, and let the hum of the engines fill the space where my thoughts should be.
The plane drops easily, a soft glide through a sheet of low clouds.
No turbulence, no bounce, just a smooth surrender to gravity.
Wheels kiss the runway, a muffled thud, then that long, rising whine of reverse thrust. Out the window, Tacoon looks the same as ever.
Flat, familiar, quiet in a way that gets under your skin.
The fields stretch out, brown and bare this time of year.
The kind of landscape that makes you remember being seventeen, driving nowhere with the windows down.
My stomach tightens anyway. It always does, right before the door opens.
That old, dumb reflex, like bracing for something you can’t quite name.
We taxi for what feels like forever. Rows of hangars slide past, a couple of maintenance trucks, the faded tail of some regional airline parked like it’s given up.
I gather my things: laptop, phone, half-empty coffee cup, and the crinkled bag of Sour Patch Kids from earlier.
The flight attendant smiles and says, “Welcome home,” without realizing it hits the wrong note.
In the arrivals terminal, the air smells like floor polish and too many cinnamon pretzels. The carpet pattern hasn’t changed in decades, that ugly blue swirl I used to trace with my shoes as a kid.
I check the board for Leo’s flight. It’s a little delayed, as usual. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes behind. I reach for my phone to text Hannah to let her know I landed.
And I freeze.
For a second, I don’t breathe. The noise of the terminal doesn’t just fade; it drops away completely. Just the thud of my heart, the echo of footsteps, and that sudden, impossible familiarity that punches through years like glass.
Liv.
She looks the same. Older, yeah. Sharper, maybe.
The way she holds herself now is guarded, armored up.
Her blonde hair pulled back, neutral clothes, face expression I can’t read.
Not anymore. But the second our eyes lock, something in me snaps back into place. Sixteen years gone, and still—it’s her.
I don’t smile. I can’t. I’m just trying to breathe. She doesn’t move either. Just stares at me like I’m a ghost. Maybe I am. Maybe we both are.
Sixteen years. Sixteen fucking years.
What the hell am I supposed to say? ‘Hey, long time. Sorry, I broke up with you over the phone. Sorry, I ruined everything. Sorry, it took my mom’s funeral to get you back here.
’ But then she steps toward me. Slow, careful, like I’ll shatter if she comes too fast. Honestly, I think I might.
She stops a few feet away, hands gripping her bag strap like it’s keeping her upright.
“Hey.” That’s it? That’s all she’s got?
“Hey.” And as I hear myself saying it back, I sound just as stupid.
“Wow, it’s been… I… I just… I wanted to say I’m sorry about your mom, Ethan.” I nod. “Thanks, Liv.” She’s struggling too. “She was… she meant a lot to me. You know that.”
“I know.” God, this is the dumbest conversation we’ve ever had.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Please fix it.
“She talked about you, you know,” I say, softer.
“Right up until the end.” Olivia’s eyes shine.
Shit, now I’m making her cry. “I wish I had called her more,” she whispers.
I don’t answer. I don’t trust myself to.
She shifts, glances over her shoulder like she’s about to bolt.
And then Leo’s voice cuts in behind me. “Hey man, I think the car’s out front already… Oh! Hi, Olivia.”
She turns, snapping back into composure. “Hi, Leo.” He gives her a half-hug, the kind you do at funerals or, in this case, airports. “I’m so sorry about Larna,” she says, looking at both of us. “Thanks,” Leo says.
“Well, I should—” She looks past us and spots her mom. “Yeah. I’ll see you around,” I say, softer than I mean to. She offers the smallest smile. “Yeah. See you around, Ethan. Bye, Leo.”
I watch her go. Her mom pulls her in, then waves at me.
Olivia laughs at something she said. And they walk off arm in arm.
She doesn’t look back. Not once. And I don’t blame her.
Leo nudges me toward the exit. We grab our bags and head for the car.
I just realized that I’m not just grieving my mother; I’m grieving her too.
The house smells like lilies and lavender. Dad’s finishing up with his dinner, and Maggie’s cleaning around the kitchen.
“Oh, my boys, how were the flights?”
“Long,” Leo and I say in unison, it sounded like we rehearsed that answer.
We all laugh. Finally, a good, real laugh.
“Anyone want coffee, tea, or alcohol?” Maggie asks, holding up a bottle of whiskey like it’s medicine.
“Your old man is tired,” Dad says, pushing back from the table.
“I’m going to bed to rest a bit, but I’ll be down for dinner.
You kids, have a drink. Just one.” He gives a small smile, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes, and disappears down the hall.
“I’ll take one,” Leo says, nodding at the bottle.
“What the hell, give me one too.” I need that drink.
Maggie nods, pours three glasses, and sets them on the coffee table.
The whiskey stings going down. We sit in silence for a minute, the weight of the house pressing in on us, the flowers, the half-cleaned dishes, Mom’s sweater still folded over the arm of her chair.
“She would hate this,” Maggie finally says. Her voice cracks, but she laughs through it. “Us sitting here like some sad movie cliché, drinking Dad’s good whiskey.”
“She’d be yelling at us to turn on music,” I add. “Something loud. Probably Santana.”
“Or Gloria Estefan,” Leo says, smirking. “God, remember how she used to dance in the kitchen to ‘Conga’ while cooking arroz con pollo?” We all laugh, the sound awkward at first, then easier.
“She had no rhythm at all,” Maggie says, wiping her eyes. “None. But she didn’t care.”
“She said confidence was half the dance,” I say, shaking my head.
“The other half was wine.” Leo grins, raising his glass.
“To Mom. Worst dancer in the room. Best at everything else.” We clink glasses.
For a second, it feels like she’s here. The silence creeps back in, softer this time.
Maggie leans back against the couch. “You know, being the oldest doesn’t get easier.
I’m still the one who has to keep you idiots in line. ”
“Please,” I scoff. “You peaked when you taught me how to sneak out without Dad hearing.”
“That was me,” Leo cuts in. “I’m the mastermind.
” Maggie gives him a look. “You were eleven. You couldn’t even reach the window lock.
” I smirk, shaking my head. “Yeah, you were the decoy. The kid who got caught so Maggie and I could get away.” Leo groans.
“Still bitter about that, thanks.” We all laugh again, this time real, and Maggie lifts her glass.
“She’d like this. Us together. Laughing.
Even if it’s through the worst night of our lives. ”
We raise our glasses again, the three of us clinking them hard enough to echo. “To Mom.”
After a while and a couple of whiskey glasses later, I excuse myself and take the path out back to the guest house.
The place is small. It’s a converted cottage with creaky floors, a kitchen that eats half the space, and a room where the giant bed barely fits.
It has a second room that’s currently just storage, but it has potential.
The most important thing about this place is that it’s quiet.
The porch opens straight onto the lake. It’s the best view in the house.
My phone buzzes as I stare at nothing. Hannah. I stare at the screen for a second, then answer. “Hey.”
“Hi, love.” Her voice is soft, the way it gets when she knows I’m close to the edge. “How was the flight?”
“Long as hell.”
“Are you okay?” I close my eyes. “I don’t know.
” She doesn’t rush me. Just let the silence hang.
She knows better than to try to take the words out of me.
“The girls want to say hi,” she says. Static, then giggles.
“Daddy!” Claire’s voice is bright and sweet.
“We made a card for Grandma Larna.” Leight chimes in, “And we made a playlist of her favorite songs. For the car ride. I put the old Selena one first.” My throat tightens.
“That’s perfect, baby. She’d love that.”
“When are we coming to see you?” Claire asks. “Soon. After the service. I’ll call before bed, okay?”
“Okay! Love you!”
“Love you more.” The phone goes back to Hannah.
We sit in the quiet for a few more seconds.
I hear pots clanking in the background. Normal life.
The one I built. A family I love. A wife who’s everything.
And still, all I can think about are green eyes I haven’t seen in sixteen years, and the ache they left behind.
“I’ll call you in the morning,” I say finally.
“Okay. Love you, Ethan.”
“Love you too.” I set the phone down and stare at the ceiling until it hurts. Because grief isn’t always loud, sometimes it’s your mother’s voice fading. Or the girl who once promised forever walking away.