“Let’s go,” I say, though I feel like my heart’s going to explode.
My breath catches in my throat as Aunt Marla pulls the door open. My eyes zip around the room, passing streamers and the posters I ordered on the walls, purposefully avoiding the spot in the corner where my Uncle Bill and his family have congregated. There are maybe ten people total, even fewer than I expected. A couple second cousins once removed. The pastor from the church we attended when I was a kid. Dad’s older sister couldn’t get a flight in from where she lives in the UK.
Disappointment cankers deep in my chest.
What did I expect? His old coworkers? The boss he defrauded? The community he betrayed? Did I really think neighbors and our old friends would be lining up to see the man who betrayed them? No, the people here are obligated by family or beliefs.
Nothing else.
This is it.
All the people who came to celebrate my dad could barely make a baseball team.
Why did I think of baseball?
You know why.
I do know why, and that only makes it hurt worse.
Marla drags me into the room, and my vintage ankle boots shuffle against the linoleum floor. My stomach lurches high in my chest. There’s not enough noise to turn individual voicesinto a dull drone. If I wanted, I could listen in on any of the conversations, most of which feel forced.
Each step forward feels like pulling stitches out of a wound that hasn’t closed. My ankle throbs, but it’s nothing compared to the empty cavern in my chest. The banner shows my dad’s smile—warm, whole, alive—and it guts me. He never came home. Not for Christmas, not for birthdays, not for anything. And now I’m supposed to celebrate a man who’s been gone for years as if we got a homecoming after all. My stomach twists, bile rising, but Aunt Marla tugs me closer, steering me toward the corner I’ve been avoiding—the place Uncle Bill and his family have already staked out.
Except, they part when they see me. Uncle Bill hugs me first, wrapping strong arms around me that I can barely feel. A shame, considering how much I love being hugged.
“It’s good to see you, Gracie Lou,” he says. I have to hold back a sob.
Aunt Amy grabs me next, pulling me into a soft, tender hug that I wish so badly I could enjoy. Cousins I barely know have long faces and sad eyes.
When my aunt releases me, my heart starts racing, pumping too hard. Acid climbs up my throat. And the blood feels like it’s draining from my limbs as I stare at a table full of pictures and photo books, notes people have left with their favorite memories, and stacks of the letters he received in prison, letters the guards claimed were his most prized possessions.
And there, front and center, is the picture of Dad and me when he taught me to ride a bike—his favorite picture, he always said—because of how big my smile was.
But I don’t see the smiling little girl in the photo.
I see the dad who’s looking at his little girl like she’s the only thing that matters.
This photo is a lie.
It was a lie two years ago at his funeral, and it’s a lie today, at the “release day” party he always dreamed about.
He simply dreamed he’d be here for it.
So did I.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
FLETCH
My family is already gone by the time I’ve finished showering, shaving, and getting dressed. The only sounds are my dress heels on the hardwood floors and the soft hum of the refrigerator in the background. I drape the tuxedo jacket over my arm as I walk around the empty home stunned, but not surprised.
Whywouldthey wait for me?
The thought is bitter. Automatic. If I mattered, someone would have waited for me.
Yeah, it’s Evan’s big day, but even if it weren’t, it sure wouldn’t be mine.
At least I have a text from Mom:
