I draw in a slow breath, holding it for a moment before letting it out. “Whitney was a sister to me,” I say, my voice breaking despite my efforts to control it. “She would have done anything for me. Shediddo anything for me. So I just feel like?—”
“I don’t care what you feel.”
The interruption is immediate, brutal in its clarity.
“I care about moving on,” he continues, his tone sharpening. “She was my wife. How do you think I’m feeling? Did you even consider that?”
I don’t answer.
There’s nothing I can say that won’t fracture the thin line I’m already walking.
“You haven’t even been here until now,” he adds, his gaze cutting into me. “How good of a friend were you, really?”
The words hit harder than they should.
“I—” My voice falters. “I was?—”
He reaches for the door again.
I stop him, my hand finding its place against the wood once more, more firmly this time.
“Please,” I say, forcing calm back into my tone. “I think you might be surprised. Sometimes a gathering like that… it helps. It gives people something to hold onto.”
He looks past me then, his attention snagging on something over my shoulder, his expression shifting in a way I can’t quite read.
When he speaks again, his tone is different—measured, almost calculating.
“I suppose it might be useful,” he says slowly. “If the coroner hears about it. Or the insurance company. It might… look good.”
There it is.
Not grief.
Not remembrance.
Optics.
I keep my face neutral, though something inside me tightens further.
“Could we keep it small?” he continues. “Under twenty people. Ten would be better. And don’t invite her parents—I don’t want to deal with that right now.”
I nod quickly. “Of course. Just her closest friends.”
“And we’ll need photos,” he adds. “Proof it happened.”
Proof.
The word echoes.
“Sure,” I say.
“It needs to be soon,” he goes on. “I’m buried in meetings right now. Calls. Everything.”
“I understand.”
I would agree to anything at this point if it means honoring Whitney—even if the man standing in front of me barely seems to remember who she was.
“Your backyard,” he says, already disengaging. “I don’t want people here.”
