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I dart across the apartment, grabbing my sneakers. “What hospital is he in?”
I pull on my jacket. Find my wallet. Slip on one sneaker. Then pause when I realize Peyton hasn’t responded.
She remains by the door, unmoving. There is no sense of urgency about her; just a raw, all-consuming pain in her eyes as she watches me. Peyton is a soldier. She’s mentally tough. She’ll have seen some awful things during her deployment. Injuries in the line of duty are something she is used to, yet she stands in Weston’s doorway, trembling. My other sneaker slips through my grasp and falls to the floor.
No .?.?. No, no, no .?.?.
“He’s not at the hospital, is he?” I whisper.
Peyton’s face crumples. “No, Gracie. No .?.?.”
And that tells me everything I never wanted to hear.
I drop to my knees as my vision blurs. Peyton runs to me. She sinks to the floor and wraps her arms around me, her body shaking against mine. She sobs into my hair and I scream, and scream, and scream, until I have no voice left at all.
GRACIE
“Gracie, can I make you something to eat?”
“No.”
“Gracie, you need to take a shower.”
“No.”
“Gracie, please stop watching the news.”
“No.”
“Gracie .?.?.”
“No.”
My mom hugs me tight. She’s staying with me at my apartment.
We tidied the place up. We gathered the destroyed roses and had them freeze-dried. They’re inside a glass frame now alongside the handwritten note from Weston. It sits on the coffee table, and I spend an awful lot of time staring at it, but it doesn’t bring me comfort. It only cuts me deeper.
GRACIE
There are thousands of people inside the auditorium at the University of San Francisco.Thousands.Everyone stands. A procession of bagpipes and snare drums escorts the honor guard as they carry the flag-draped casket to the front of the auditorium, and Verity squeezes my hand.
Officers from all over California are here. They are all in uniform, and they stand in salute. On large screens, a slideshow of images plays. Photographs of Weston as a young kid, of him with family and friends, of him graduating from the academy, of him being sworn in as an officer. There’s a photo of him with the Golden Gate Bridge stretching behind, taken by myself barely three weeks ago. I supplied it to Peyton to use.
Everyone sits. There are hundreds upon hundreds of members of the public who are here to show support. Weston is the third officer to be killed in the line of duty in California this year. The first of San Francisco PD in years. It’s been on the news. In the paper. The community has really come together. Local businesses have been raising funds for the Reed family. There are even news crews here.
A pastor leads the memorial service. On a stage full of wreaths, he speaks of the tragic day last Monday.
Elena and Maddie sit on my left. Verity and my mom on the right. Maddie takes my other hand. But I’m okay. I’m too numb to feel anything. Too numb to cry. Too numb to be present. I sit way back in the stalls, because I didn’t know Weston long enough to justify sitting closer.
The first tribute is delivered by Weston’s field training officer, Bill. His arm is in a sling. He took a bullet that morning, too. He talks of Weston fondly. Jokes of how tough he was on him. Says he was honored to be his partner for ten weeks.
His friend, Adam, delivers the second tribute. He can’t finish it. His voice cracks and he chokes on his tears before the pastor escorts him down from the stage.
Peyton and Keaton stand up together to deliver a joint tribute. They both stay strong up there at the podium in front of all these people, but they’re both so resilient. They’re hurting, but they keep it together. They’re tough. At one point, I spot Keaton’s wife, Lily, way down at the front. She has Sophia next to her and her newborn in her lap. Weston’s nephew is only eleven days old. He’ll never know his uncle, but he’ll learn about him as he gets older. He’ll know Weston through photographs and stories. Through memories kept alive.
The final tribute is from Weston’s father. Mark talks of how proud he was of Weston for following in his footsteps, and I have to just sit there in these stalls with my heart in pieces because I know .?.?. Iknow.?.?. Weston never wanted to. It’s why he wouldn’t quit. His fear of disappointing his dad was bigger than his fear of putting his life on the line. But Mark would have understood. Of course he would have. It’s too late now.
My chest is so heavy. It feels like I’m carrying the weight of the world even though my time with Weston was so limited. In the five weeks I knew him, he became my best friend. He kept me afloat when it was so easy to drown, and I have to believe that during the past five weeks, I gave him the same friendship and care he gave me. His final few weeks weren’t all heartbreak. There were good moments in there, and I take solace in the fact I played a part in that. It’s the only way I can sleep at night. Knowing that maybe I made his life a tiny bit easier, even just for a little while.
