1. June #2
It’s Sarah who breaks the silence, her voice wobbling. “How are you holding up after the funeral?” She hesitates and then adds, “It was beautiful, by the way.”
The question hits harder than I expected. For a second, I can’t find the words because there’s nothing that could possibly make sense of life after loss. The funeral’s over, and there’s a hole in the universe where my mother used to be.
I press my back against the closed door and blink my eyes closed for a moment. “It’s… I don’t know. I don’t know what it’s supposed to be like. Somehow, it’s worse than losing my dad. Maybe because they’re both gone now.”
She nods, and I realize she’s watching me with genuine concern.
“I thought I’d feel better once it was over. But it’s just…empty.” The words taste weird coming out.
She bobs her head in understanding. “Richard’s speech was actually really nice. I could tell how much he loved her.”
“Meredith did the hard part, though. I was so grateful that she spoke for all of us. She held it together when I couldn’t.”
Her eyes turn glassy, but she doesn’t cry. Not for me, anyway. “She was a good mom.”
“Yeah.” I swallow. “She really, really was.”
We let that settle. The ache is lighter with someone else in the room to hold some of it.
Then, because nothing is ever allowed to remain simple in my life, I blurt out, “Mark was there. Well, not at the funeral…I don’t think. But he was at the gathering afterward.”
She looks up, startled. “Mark Perez? Meredith’s ex-husband?”
I nod slowly. “Turns out he had news.”
Her eyebrows shoot up, a distraction she clearly welcomes. “What kind of news?”
I almost want to laugh. “Ashton’s trial is over. Like, completely over. They cleared him.”
She processes that for a second, then her face does this complicated dance between relief and something more dangerous. “Are you going to call him? I mean, you have to call him, right? Now that he’s free? He is your husband after all.”
I run my hands down my face, my fingers lingering on my chin for a moment.
“Do I? I don’t know. I want answers, or closure, or maybe just to feel like something is moving forward for the first time in a year.
But then I start thinking about seeing him, about what happens if he—God, what if it was all real?
What if I have to look him in the eye and finally ask why? ”
She sits with that as if it’s a riddle she’s supposed to solve for me.
“I think you owe it to yourself to find out. You always said the hardest part was not knowing. Maybe this is your last chance to make sense of it.” She reaches out and places her hand on my arm.
“And maybe he loves you the way he said he did.”
I wish I hadn’t said anything. I wish it didn’t matter as much as it obviously does.
The timer beeps, the tiny electronic chirp slicing through the room. Sarah freezes, looks at the test, then at me, then back at the test again. Her hands are visibly shaking, but she can’t see the results from the floor.
“Do you want me to?—”
She shakes her head, swallowing. Then she lurches forward and grabs the test, holding it up to the light and reading it once, twice, three times before the result finally lands.
Negative.
She lets out a gasp like she’s been punched; then, without warning, she collides with me, arms thrown around my shoulders and face buried in my neck as we both fall to the floor in a hugging heap. “It’s negative. It’s negative. Oh my God. Thank you, Jesus.”
I hold her as she sobs. Laughter and crying all mixed together, her body limp with relief.
I’m happy for her. Of course I am. I hug her back as hard as I can, feeling her shudder against me. But underneath, a hollow feeling spreads. The deep ache of being the only one who still doesn’t know what tomorrow brings.
No guarantees. No closure. Just emptiness, and the possibility that maybe, for people like us, the universe is just one long string of not-yets.
Eventually, Sarah’s trembling slows. We push ourselves back up, and she manages a watery smile. I dry her face with toilet paper, swipe at my cheeks in silent solidarity, and we both breathe in the lavender air freshener, which somehow feels cleansing.
There’s no script for what comes next, so I default to what I do best—getting back up, brushing off the ashes, and facing the world like it never had a say in how much we feel.
We head out of the bathroom together, bracing for the onslaught.
The living room is exactly as we left it, except for a few extra inches of snacks on the floor.
The final scenes of the action movie are reaching a climax, with blue lights flickering off the walls, catching on soda cans and half-empty chip bags.
It looks like a frat party hosted by a high school debate team.
We squeeze onto the couch without ceremony.
There’s maybe seven inches of cushion between Trent and the armrest, but he shifts his legs to make room for Sarah and me.
His eyes flick to both of us immediately.
The second he catches sight of Sarah’s wrecked makeup, he throws me a pointed what-did-I-miss look.
I shake my head, silently telling him that I don’t need a post-mortem right now.
The moment passes, and his attention returns to the screen, but his jaw clenches. He’s clocked the drama and filed it away for later, but unless someone’s literally bleeding, he’ll let it ride. It’s the kind of truth we agreed to when he was first inserted into our world.
Next to him, Danny sits forward, chewing popcorn like it’s a competitive sport.
For five precious minutes, nothing is required of me but to exist here, a warm body on a couch, surrounded by two young men immersed in fantasy violence. Sarah curls up at my side, so I angle my knees to shield her from the worst of the popcorn landmines.
Then the credits hit, all pounding rock music and afterglow. The boys stretch like cats in the sudden silence, and the conversation immediately descends into chaos.
“Dude, your dad’s going to kill you if you’re not home in, like, five minutes.” Trent tosses a handful of chips into his mouth. “He said ten at the latest.” Then he points at the clock on the wall.
Danny stretches and cracks his back, scoffing. “His bark is way worse than his bite.”
Sarah and I exchange a look, the first truly normal moment since she showed up at my door. And it feels…nice.
In the end, the boys agree it’s time to leave. No need to get into trouble for being late. They both bellow “later” and “bye” as they disappear out the front door, their voices fading as they negotiate the finer points of not getting caught sneaking home.
The quiet that settles in their wake is instant.
Sarah slumps beside me.
I don’t even pretend to play it cool. I reach out, wrap a hand around her arm, and hold on as if she’s the last lifeboat on a sinking ship. “Stay.” The word is so raw it almost cracks mid-syllable. “Please. I just… I don’t want to be alone tonight.” It’s hard to admit, to ask for support.
She looks at me, and something in her face softens. “Of course I’ll stay, idiot. What kind of friend would leave you with this mess?”
For the first time all week, I laugh. Truly laugh. The sound is unsteady, but it’s real.
She pushes herself up and scans the room. “Pullout or my usual spot in the guest room?”
“Pullout. I can’t stand the idea of being on opposite ends of the hall. It’s just…too much house for one person.”
She nods, understanding immediately. “Blankets and pillows?”
“Top of the linen closet.”
As we wrestle the ancient, lumpy sofa-bed into submission, I feel a genuine wave of gratitude for her presence.
The kitchen is still a disaster; the living room is a wreck.
But it doesn’t matter, not tonight. With Sarah here, the rooms don’t echo.
The emptiness feels less consuming. And my heart doesn’t hurt quite as much.
We curl up on the pullout, half-watching a bad reality show while debating who would survive longest in a zombie apocalypse.
We talk over each other, giggle, groan, and snack on whatever isn’t crushed beneath the cushions.
There’s nothing dramatic, nothing earth-shattering, just the slow, stubborn process of feeling the world come back together, cell by cell.
My body sags into the mattress. Even though exhaustion thrums through every bone, I’m reluctant to let go of the night. I keep one hand curled in Sarah’s, an anchor and an apology and a thank-you all tangled up in the gesture.
Her voice is thick with sleep when she asks, “You really okay?”
I think about Ashton. About the funeral. About Trent, my sisters, and how fragile it all feels. I think about the hollow that never quite goes away. “I will be,” I say. “Now that you’re here.”
She squeezes my fingers. “I’m always here.”
And for the first time in days, I believe I’ll make it.