20. Knox
Knox
Ishould have stayed at the grave longer, been one of the last ones to leave.
That’s what people expect, right? The grieving brother, standing over the casket, taking his time to say goodbye.
But I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t stand there while everyone watched and waited and whispered about how tragic it all was.
They have no fucking idea.
So I walked away. Bowed my head and left my mother crying, left Ella standing there open-mouthed when I told her not to follow. Left all of them hovering around a hole in the ground where my brother doesn’t belong.
We should still be at the lake, bickering over some fuck ass thing or another, him calling me an asshole and me calling him a pussy, over and over again until the end of time.
But this…putting him in the goddamn ground where worms will devour what’s left of him. No. I can’t stand there a second longer.
I make it to my Jeep before a wave of nausea hits. Bracing my hands on the hood, I breathe in, willing myself not to throw up at this fucking cemetery in front of everyone in town.
The metal hood burns my palms, but I welcome the distraction and hold them there until I can’t take the pain another second.
It shouldn’t be this hot out, this bright.
I can’t stand it. Everything about this whole day is wrong—the summer weather, the hundreds of people pretending they knew Owen, the dumbass flowers that’ll just die in a few days filling the trash bins with their musty stench.
And my parents are the worst of all. My mother in her pharmaceutical haze, smiling and nodding to complete strangers when I know she’s seconds from collapse.
And my prick of a father, with his iron grip on my shoulder every time he caught me eyeing Sawyer when he’s been stealing glances at Helen since she arrived.
Hypocrite. The great Richard Aldrich, a pillar of the community.
Nobody knows how he finished off a bottle of whiskey right before coming here, snapping at my mom for being too much.
“Knox!”
It’s Ella, ignoring my wishes for privacy once again.
I don’t turn around. “I need a minute.”
“Everyone’s leaving for the luncheon.” Her purse swishes against the fabric of her dress as she approaches. “We should probably get going.”
Fuck. I can’t catch a break.
Her hand finds the middle of my back, and it takes everything in me not to pull away. “You alright? You need anything?”
Yeah, five goddamn minutes.
“I’m fine.” I straighten up, and stretch my sore neck from side to side. “Let’s go.”
She climbs into the passenger side and I round the Jeep to get in, noticing Sawyer and Helen walking down the hill toward Helen’s car.
Their heads are close together, comforting each other.
From here, Sawyer looks so much smaller, almost crumpled into herself and broken.
I wish I was the one holding her. My misery craves very specific company.
Is she going to the luncheon? She must be. Fuck, she’s brave to face all the assholes, including myself. So much braver than I’d ever be.
Or maybe not.
I’d plow through an entire town—hell, an entire state—of gossiping assholes if it meant I could be there for Sawyer. I’d be brave, for her.
“Knox, you getting in?” Ella asks through the window.
I pull my door open and climb in, tossing my jacket behind me and starting the engine. The air conditioning blasts warm air from the vents, not helping the beads of sweat dripping down my temples.
Sawyer’s outside their car, staring back at the grave site until Helen says something and she gets inside, disappearing behind tinted windows. I’m already aching to have my eyes on her again.
The second I shut the door, Ella flips down the visor mirror, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue and checking her makeup. “God, I look awful,” she mutters, wiping under her lashes. “I’ve been crying all morning.”
I don’t respond. There’s no need. We’ve all been fucking crying. Ella’s phone buzzes and she looks at it. I glance over and see who’s texting her.
Her father. Vince Moretti.
She types back a response, while I try not to break my hands from how hard I’m gripping the wheel.
Heading out, I follow the procession of vehicles on their way toward my childhood home in The Manor.
Toward Sawyer.
Where I’ll have to stand in a room with her and act like I don’t want to pull her into my arms. Where I’ll have to play pretend for another goddamn day.
My parents house sits at the end of a tree lined street, a colonial revival with white columns and black shutters that my mother had repainted last year.
The circular driveway is already packed with cars somehow, even though I was one of the first to leave.
People are meandering around the front lawn, holding glasses of wine and making small talk.
They’re acting like this is a damn cocktail party and not a funeral. I grip the wheel tighter, fighting the urge to turn around and keep driving until I can’t see straight.
There’s one thing stopping me from doing that. Seeing Sawyer.
I pull in behind my father’s Benz and cut the engine.
“Ready?” Ella asks, checking her reflection one more time.
No. I’ll never be ready to walk into that house and pretend Owen’s absence isn’t a gaping wound. Pretend Sawyer isn’t a part of my family. Of my soul.
Is anyone ever ready for that?
But I get out anyway, spotting Moretti’s black Escalade parked nearby. I didn’t notice him at the church or the cemetery, but I’d bet he was there, lingering in the back.
Of course my father invited him. We need to keep up appearances. God forbid, business gets paused to bury my brother.
“Oh, good,” Ella says beside me, following my line of sight. “My father made it.”
Good. Right.
I nod and keep walking.
We’re not even halfway to the front door when people start approaching. Our old lacrosse coach. My father’s golf buddies. Mrs. Coleman from down the street who used to bake us cookies when we were kids.
The shoulder pats, the pitying eyes, the tears for someone they barely knew. The same five words again and again. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
It’s all so performative. They can go home and check off the box on their calendars. Attended funeral. Offered condolences. Done.
But the worst part is I’m performing too. I shake hands. I nod. I say thank you over and over until the words lose all meaning when all I really want to do is tell them all to get the fuck out of my house.
Ella stays close, her hand on my arm, being the supportive girlfriend. And I let her even though there’s only one person I want touching me right now.
“They’re all so sweet,” Ella says, once we catch a second to breathe. “I’m going to cry all over again. So many people cared about Owen…about your family.”
“Yeah.”
Why argue when it’s easier to agree?
We make it through the crowd and into the house.
The foyer is packed, the air thick with a mix of perfumes and the overpowering scent of more floral arrangements my mom must have had delivered here this morning.
Hired servers walk around passing out beverages and leading people out back to the yard, where my parents have apparently spared no expense turning our property into something that could rival a royal wedding.
I step through the French doors and stop.
A white tent structure stretches across the entire back lawn, its fabric sides rolled up to let in the warm June breeze. Round tables draped in ivory linen with floral centerpieces are set up inside, each one seating ten. There’s even a fucking fully stocked bar.
And is that a string quartet? What the hell?
Servers in uniform move between the tables, adjusting place settings and delivering bread.
This is insane…obscene…and so unnecessary.
Owen has been in the ground for less than two hours and they turned his funeral luncheon into a goddamn event.
The cost of this alone—the tent rental, the catering staff, the flowers, the musicians—I can’t even begin to calculate it but there’s no way we can afford this.
Not at all. And I know because I’ve seen the accounts.
I stepped in to handle the business and home expenses when they both lost their goddamn minds from the scandal.
But Richard Aldrich would rather drown in debt than let Ashford see him struggling. He’d rather put it on credit, call in favors, leverage whatever he has left, than host his son’s funeral luncheon like a normal grieving family. I’m sure Moretti is involved.
Anything for appearances…fucking always.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Ella says beside me, beaming. “Your mom did an incredible job.”
I doubt my mom did anything, when she’s barely standing upright.
“Yeah,” I say flatly. “It’s great.”
People are already finding their seats, guided by place cards.
Fucking place cards? How the hell did they even know who was attending?
It doesn’t matter. I know where I’ll be seated, right up front at the family table.
My sister, Hailey, is already there, skin flushed as she passes their son to her husband.
I scan the tables instinctively, looking for Sawyer. I didn’t see Helen’s car parked but I’m sure they’re here. I can feel it.
It takes a few minutes but I finally find them. Sawyer and Helen are being shown to a table in the back, tucked under the edge of the tent where the afternoon shade is deepest. Away from my family. Away from everything and everyone.
My jaw tightens.
This has to be my father’s doing.
Speak of the devil. I smell the booze on his breath before he’s close enough to lay a heavy hand on my shoulder. “I need you at the family table, now.”
Sighing, I tear my gaze away from Sawyer and follow him to the front where my mother is just sitting opposite Hailey. She gestures for me to sit beside her, so I do, letting her wrap her shaky arm around my shoulder.
My father moves to the small podium that’s been set up near the head table, because of course there’s a podium with this spectacle, and taps the microphone. The string quartet stops playing, conversations die down and everyone turns to look.