Chapter 58 The Other Half of My Heart #2
Lydia wanted to be cremated so the stage is simply adorned with floral displays alongside an enlarged photo propped on an easel.
Hannah’s mom’s smile is all teeth, head thrown back in laughter—joy incarnate.
She and her daughter look so much alike the realization manages to warm and break my heart all at once.
Per Lydia’s wishes, the funeral is simple, not overly morose.
There’s no open mic time or drawn out montage video of snapshots set to music.
Hannah didn’t want people to dawdle. “Get to the after party and talk about me over cheese and wine,” she’d said, recounting her mother’s instructions.
My grin at the memory is involuntary because I laughed out loud when she told me the first time.
Lydia James, for as little as I knew her, was a one of a kind woman.
Hannah doesn’t cry much during the service. Perhaps because she has no tears left or maybe because she’s spent months, years, preparing for this day. All I know is she never lets go of my hand—from the time we leave the family room to when I help her into her car, she holds on.
Everyone gathers at Hannah’s house after the service for the “after party” as Lydia called it.
And that’s exactly what it is: a party. For every story I hear from one of her friends about whatever hijinks Lydia was up to at her yoga class, or farmer’s market, or art studio way back when or way too recently, I overhear a dozen more.
Smiles and laughter reverberate off the walls and from every corner.
Everyone knows what Lydia battled over the past several years, and they know how she wanted to be remembered. And they’re doing one hell of a job.
Hannah floats through the crowd, ever the hostess.
Kristen, Richard, and I encourage her to sit down on more than one occasion, offering to take care of whatever dishes or clean-up task she’s busied herself with.
Her spirits remain high through the early afternoon, but I notice the exhaustion settling in as the day wears on.
When someone you love dies, nobody prepares you for how much work you have to do in comforting others through their grief.
And the happy kind of grief can be just as tasking as the sad kind.
I find Richard at the kitchen sink rinsing a stack of plates and come up beside him, grabbing a dish towel. “Let me help.”
We work in silence for a couple minutes, occasionally glancing behind us when an uproar of laughter trickles in from the living room.
“I never got a chance to thank you,” I say.
“Thank me for what?”
“First off, for being here.” His eyes bounce to mine, then back to the sink. “I’m sorry for your loss. Lydia was…”
“She was. And no thank you is necessary. I was exactly where I wanted to be.”
I nod once, dip my chin, and cast a long look to Hannah on the couch. “And for helping me with those texts.”
Richard grins softly, drying his hands. We both turn and settle our backs against the counter. For a few moments, we watch the chaos around the coffee table unfold.
“They were all hers, you know,” he says. I meet his gaze. “Every word. I just typed them out.” His hand grips my shoulder. “Your messages brought her so much comfort and you need to know that.”
I take a breath, trying to let go of the guilt I feel over not being here to say what I needed to say to her face.
“And I deleted them from Lydia’s phone like you asked,” he adds with an accomplice’s wink.
I grin wide, thank him, and shake his hand, knowing full well those messages from Lydia still live on my phone. When the time is right, I’ll share them with her daughter.
Over the next hour, people begin to clear out and for the few remaining stragglers as the sun begins to set, Kristen politely nudges them out the door.
Hannah, barefoot and shoulders slumped, heads for the kitchen.
“Hey, just go on back to bed. Kris and I will take care of all this.” She casts a weary look over the stack of casserole dishes, homemade pies, and bags of groceries littering every surface until she finally gives in and pads down the hall.
It takes us forty-five minutes to reconfigure the fridge to squeeze everything in and tidy up the house. After Kristen leaves, I check the locks, shut off the lights, and make my way to Hannah’s bedroom. It’s barely past dinner time, but I just want to climb under the blankets and hold her.
She’s curled up on top of her covers, eyes open but empty. Knees hiked up to her chest and hands slid under her cheek, she barely acknowledges me when I step inside the room.
“Sit up, baby. Let’s get this dress off,” I whisper, flipping on the bedside lamp.
She coaxes herself to a seated position. I crouch down in front of her and reach one hand around her back. “Hi.” The zipper glides easily down her spine.
“Hi,” she replies.
My hands twist in the hem of her dress on either side of her knees. “Lift up.” She complies and I maneuver the fabric over her hips. “Arms up.” I tug the dress over her head, her hair falling messily across her face when she’s finally free.
Before I can ask what she wants to sleep in, she reaches for my hoodie draped over the foot of the bed. My heart seizes in my chest.
I grab it before she can. “I got it.”
My body will always respond to Hannah perched half-naked on the edge of her bed, but that’s not what I’m here for and, more importantly, it’s not what she needs. She rids herself of her bra without a word and slides into the sweatshirt with my help.
I kneel in front of her, running my palms in soothing strokes up and down her thighs. “Is there anything else you need?”
Her gaze locks with mine. She swallows once. “Kiss me.”
Our lips meet for the first time in far too long.
It’s finding home after hopelessly wandering in the dark for months.
Climbing the familiar porch steps, feet bloody and skin dry, to discover nothing’s changed, it’s exactly the same as when you left it.
A home that’s been waiting for you to find your way back. That alone is its own kind of healing.
There’s no tongue. No heavy press of one body into another. No fabric clenched between fists. Only a lazy, tender exploration, mouths moving effortlessly, an exchange of contented sighs and hums.
I cup her face in my hands and pull back to look in her eyes. “Let’s get some sleep.”
She nods and I tuck her under the blanket.
Stripped down to my boxers, I slide in behind her and slot our bodies together until we’re a tangle of limbs and skin. Hannah’s breathing finds a steady, sleepy rhythm within minutes.
It’s twelve hours until I have to leave for the airport, I didn’t eat dinner and I’m not tired. But I’ll stay right here, holding her while she gets the sleep she needs until the last possible second.